Into This World We're Thrown
by Aebhel
Summary: Re-posted from WMDB. In the wake of a violent kidnapping, Nick tries to help Greg cope while the team comes together to catch the bad guys. Rated for adult themes and the author beating the hell out of Greg.
1. Discovery

A/N: This was originally posted over at _What Makes the Desert Beautiful_, but since the site's down for maintenance for the foreseeable future, I'm going to post what I have up here.

This fic includes graphic descriptions of violence and sexual assault. Consider this your first, last, and only warning.

* * *

_Breathe._

You smell like smoke and death and you're gasping, sobbing and struggling against the ropes. You've pulled the knots tight enough that I'm having trouble getting them undone. My fingers are clumsy, and I don't dare try to cut through them. You won't hold still.

_Please. Just breathe. Just--_

_Hey. Calm down, man. It's me. I got you._

I've never seen you like this. Never.

_We've got you. You're safe. I promise, you're safe. Just hold still. Let me get these off you._

_Don't touch me!_

_I'm just trying to get the ropes off. Come on, man. Hold still._

My hand's bleeding. You bit me when I tried to pull the blindfold off. Grissom told me to get it looked at, let him take over. I told him to go to hell.

I don't normally talk to him like that. But there's nothing normal about this.

_Don't you fucking--god. Please. Please don't--_

_Greg, man, it's me. It's Nick. Calm down. I know you can hear me, buddy._

Your face is filthy. I finally get the blindfold undone. It was tied tight enough to bruise and some of your hair comes off with the knot. You don't open your eyes. I don't know if you can. Tears are leaving tracks through the mud and blood on your cheeks, and it looks like you bit through your lip. Or someone did, anyway.

_Hey. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you open your eyes and look at me? I need to get these ropes off you--you gotta hold still. Please._

_Fuck you!_

You look so skinny, so fragile and breakable--broken--in the harsh glare of the floodlight. Brass and Grissom and Sara are standing back at the doorway, watching. I wish they'd leave. Just--leave. They shouldn't be seeing you like this. I don't want anyone to see you like this, bloody and bruised and mindless with fear.

When I get the ropes on your wrists undone I'm braced for a punch. You still haven't opened your eyes, but you curl in on yourself like a withered leaf, forehead to your knees, arms wrapped around your shins. Your ankles are still bound.

From this angle, I can see the old scars from the explosion spiderwebbing over your exposed back and shoulders. I didn't think anything worse than that could happen to you.

You're really crying now, great gasping sobs that threaten to shake you apart. I want to comfort you, but you flinch away like every touch is a blow.

_Greg._

_Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone_

Voice trailing off to a whisper. You're too hoarse to speak, but your lips keep moving. Grissom would be able to tell what you're saying, but I can guess enough.

_We got you, man. We got you. It's over. You're okay._

You're anything but okay. Two days, it's been. Two days since you didn't show up to work and we found your car behind the diner with the windows smashed in and your blood on the seats and we all thought you were dead. Now here you are, bound and dehydrated and naked on the floor of an abandoned factory, and I'm no doctor but it's not like I need a thorough medical exam to know what they did to you.

I'm not thinking about it. If I think about it I'm going to start screaming and punching walls and that's not what you need from me. Not now.

_I'm just going to get this rope off your ankles, okay? We got an ambulance here. They're going to take care of you._

You broke an EMT's nose with a headbutt when we first tried to get you untied, and now they're hanging back. If I can't get you calmed down they're going to have to restrain you.

_Greg? Greggo? Come on, man, work with me. I know you're in there. It's Nick. You know I'm not going to hurt you._

Finally--finally, God, finally, you stop crying. Your breath still hitching in sobs and you swallow once, twice, three times. When you speak, your voice is mangled, but there's sense in it.

_Nick?_

Tremulous, like a kid woken up halfway through a nightmare, and it breaks my heart to hear it.

_Yeah. It's me._

_I'm sorry._

_You got nothing to be sorry for._

_I just--the car--I was stupid--I fucked up and I thought--_

_I know, man._

_They're gone?_

_Yeah. They're gone. Here, hold still. Let me get this rope off you. Can you open your eyes?_

_No._

Your feet twitch when I release the rope. It was coarse enough to rub your ankles raw, and dried blood is caked on your pale skin. My hand hovers, hesitant, and you flinch away when I touch your knee. I pull back like I've been burned.

The EMT's sway closer, carefully. Looking at you, their caution seems ridiculous, but I know you're stronger than you look. You'd have to be.

_The ambulance is here. They're going to take you to the hospital and--_

_No._

_Greg, you're dehydrated, you're all beat up, you need to go get checked out. Get the tests run._

You laugh. It's an awful, croaking noise.

_Get the tests run._

_Yeah._

_What for?_

_So the doctors know--so we know--_

_You already know what happened._

It's true. I swallow hard. My legs are cramped from crouching in this position for too long, and I wonder how long you've been laying here. I can't think straight.

_I'm sorry._

_Sure._

_Greg, you can't just stay here. You need to be in a hospital._

_Come with me._

_Who, me? Sara would--_

_No. You._

* * *

_You want me to take a look at that?_

The EMT is blond, blue-eyed and fresh-faced, can't be older than twenty. He's peering at my hand, I realize, while his partner sets your IV.

The swab is cool and stings badly as it cleans off crusted blood. I can see the indentations of your teeth in the fleshy part of my palm, a near-perfect half-circle, and with a wrench I remember you going on about the marvels of orthodontics. The bite is pretty deep, and it's probably going to scar.

Your eyes are still closed. You're not fighting the hands that clean and prep and set IV's and check your pupil dilation, but you hold yourself unnaturally stiff, like it's taking all your self-control to keep from struggling. You answer questions tersely, in a rasping whisper.

_Does this hurt?_

_Do you have feeling in your toes?_

_Do you have any allergies to food or medication?_

They don't ask what happened, but I guess that's not their job. They fix people; it's my job to find out how they got broken, and right now I really wish it wasn't.

* * *

The team meets us at the hospital. I'm sitting outside the ER and staring at the floor between my knees when Catherine and Warrick sink into the chairs on either side of me. Sara must have picked them up, because Grissom and Brass have already cornered the EMT's who brought us in.

Catherine squeezes my knee, comfortingly, and none of us say anything.

In the other room, I can hear Brass's voice raised, but I can't make out the words.

* * *

It's just past eleven when the doctor comes out.

He says that you're stabilized. They're moving you out of the ICU.

You'll let us run the tests, but you don't want visitors.

* * *

We draw straws to see who'll do the kit. Sara draws the short straw. I feel guilty for being glad.


	2. Processing, Part 1

Your mother arrives on the red-eye and takes a cab to the hospital without even bothering to check into a hotel. She's small and pale, hands fluttering like nervous birds when she speaks.

She looks like you. I didn't expect that, although I don't know why not. Same narrow face and arched, expressive brows, same eyes, although hers are wet and more frightened than I've ever seen you look before tonight.

She asks what happened, and Catherine gives her the run-around, managing to sound both reassuring and informative without actually giving her any information at all. It should be Grissom talking, but he's standing by the windows, staring out at an empty sidewalk with unnerving focus. I don't even know if he heard her come in; he looks like a statue.

I tell her that you'll be okay, and I guess it's more or less true. You're not going to die. That's the important part.

She pushes her suitcase against the wall and sits with her face in her hands, rocking in her seat. Like you, she can't seem to hold still. She has all of your neuroses and none of your charm.

I feel bad as soon as I think it, but that doesn't stop me. From thinking it.

I'm not handling this at all.

* * *

We're all sitting in the hallway and trying to look like we aren't waiting for anyone when Sara walks out with her kit in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. Her eyes are red and leaking tears and she's chewing on her lower lip so hard that I'm a little surprised there isn't blood on her teeth.

Warrick and I stand up. I feel too big for my feet, like I might forget how to balance and topple over, right there in the hallway.

_Is he--_

_He's sleeping._

She's lying, but I don't press her. Without saying anything else, she turns on her heel and walks away, back straight, knuckles white on the handle of her kit. Your mother blinks after her, dazedly, but Catherine and Warrick step in before she can ask any questions that none of us want to answer.

_Mrs. Sanders, you must be tired. Let's give you a ride over to the hotel--Greg's going to be just fine, we're going to head back and start processing the scene right now--_

And now the hall's empty except for me, standing there like an idiot with my hands dangling uselessly at my sides. And Grissom. He still looks like he's carved out of marble. Brass left a while ago. I didn't even notice.

_Are we going to? Process the scene?_

_You're going to go home and rest._

_Grissom, I can't._

_You're no good to me or to Greg like this. Tired people get sloppy, make mistakes. Go get some sleep._

_No._

_Nick._

_I'm serious, Gris. I'm not going to sleep either way. I just need to do something, okay?_

He doesn't answer me. But he doesn't stop me from following him out to the Denali, either. Sometimes I wonder how much he knows. It's so hard to tell with him.

We're both silent on the ride back to the factory, and we keep right on not talking while we get out of the car and lock the doors and pull our kits out of the back. Crime scene tape sagging against the dark maw of a doorway and two uniforms waiting for us. One of them greets me. I guess I know him, but I don't say anything back.

There are footprints in the dust. Blood. Most of it's probably yours, but I collect samples just to be sure. Photograph the scene. Collect evidence. Take notes, like a good CSI.

No signs of a struggle. You were already tied up when they dumped you here.

The rope's still coiled carelessly in the dirt where I pulled it off of you. Thick, twisted synthetic fiber, the kind you can find at any hardware store. I probably destroyed any trace trying to untie you, but I bag it anyway.

And then Grissom holds up a dark, lumpy handful of fabric. Your tac vest. Your clothes. He has your boots in the other hand, and something about the sight makes a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up in my throat.

I choke it down, lift the ALS.

_Nick, don't--_

He puts out a hand, uselessly warding, but it's already too late.

Dark stains, and glowing white, smeared on your tac vest and your faded jeans. Blood and semen, on your clothes.

I don't even notice my knees buckling but suddenly Grissom's right there, sliding a supportive hand under my elbow. Old as he is, he's strong; he takes most of my weight without so much as a grunt, and holds me steady until I can keep my feet on my own.

This close, I can smell him. Soap and Old Spice and latex gloves and something danker, a flat saltwater stink that must be coming from the clothes he's still holding in one hand. I want to throw up, but I don't.

_Go home, Nick. I can finish up here. Come back in when you've had a few hours of sleep._

I want to argue with him, but he looks almost as sick as I feel, that infamous deadpan broken to pieces.

And anyway, he's right, not that it stops me from punching a concrete wall with my good hand on my way out the door.

* * *

My house seems dark and too small when I get home and I throw open all the windows, feeling claustrophobic like I haven't in years. I lay down without bothering to get undressed.

I'm not expecting to get to sleep but my body's tired enough to override the sickened fragments of rage that ricochet through my mind.

* * *

If I dream, I don't remember it, and I'm grateful for that.


	3. Processing, Part 2

I come awake all at once, limbs flailing. For a few minutes, I just stare up at the ceiling, the thin line of sunlight coming around the curtains.

My clothes are twisted and sweat-soaked, and I shuck them off, pull on fresh jeans and a shirt without looking at the clock. My skin is prickling, buzzing, and I feel lightheaded. I count back. It's been almost a day since I've had anything to eat. I'm not hungry, but I choke down a bagel that might as well be made out of cardboard for all I can taste it. It sits like a stone in my belly.

It's light outside. Midday. I can't have been asleep more than four hours, and the whole world seems sharp-edged and too bright. By the time I pull in to the parking lot at work, my eyes are burning.

Maybe I should go to the hospital instead, but you've worked the night shift long enough that you'll be sleeping now, and it's not like I'm going to do you any good by pacing the hallway outside your room.

At least that's what I tell myself. Maybe I just don't want to face you. I don't even know.  


* * *

Word gets around fast here. Everyone I meet on my way to the labs is subdued, and nobody seems to want to look me in the face. I pretend not to notice.

Grissom is sitting at his desk when I get there, glasses off, both hands pressing into the bridge of his nose. He doesn't look up when I come in.

_Warrick and Catherine are processing Greg's clothes. Archie has the video surveillance from the diner._

Okay.

He sighs and puts his glasses back on.

_I had to send Sara home. She threw a folding chair across the room._

It's not really that funny, but I chuckle anyway. The laughter dies in my throat when Grissom looks up and pins me with his gaze.

_And what about you, Nick?_

What about me?

I'm taking Sara off this case for the time being. She's too emotionally involved. Are you sure you're going to be able to handle this?

I'm fine.

No, you're not.

What do you want me to say, Grissom? Of course I'm not okay. You trying to tell me that Warrick and Catherine are? That you are?

If you're going to make this personal, I'll put you on another case.

What are you saying?

I understand how you feel, but I can't have that start clouding your judgment.

I want to strangle the bastards who did this, yeah, but you show me one other person in the labs who says they don't feel the same way and I'll show you a liar.

That's not the same.

Why the hell not?

The nature of your relationship--

Suddenly, I realize what he's getting at, and I don't know if I want to laugh or cry.

_You think--we aren't together, Gris._

I see.

It isn't often I manage to surprise Grissom, and I wish I could get more satisfaction out of it now. His brow furrows and he stares at me for a long time, and I can almost see the thoughts and assumptions re-ordering themselves behind his cool blue eyes.

Whatever he's thinking, he keeps it to himself, and that's probably just as well. I'm not sure I could handle listing to Grissom's opinions about unrequited love. Especially not now.

Finally, he nods again. Worldview adjusted.

_We towed his car in. You can process that._

Your car. I saw it earlier, when we were still looking for you. It's covered with your blood and suddenly I'm wondering if Grissom doesn't have a point after all, because I'm not sure I can handle processing that like it's just another piece of evidence.

I don't say that, though. I don't say anything, just nod and turn on my heel to leave.  


* * *

Shattered safety glass glitters like diamonds on the seats, scattered across the dashboard and floating in the paper cup of congealed coffee. Blood, mostly on the headrest of the driver's seat. That's why we thought you were dead, at first, but now I'm thinking that the amount can be explained by your broken nose.

It started here.

Fingerprints on the plastic back of the headrest. The assailant sat back here. Right behind you. He probably had a knife. Maybe a gun.

There's a small fragment of something that looks like tooth enamel on the armrest of the passenger side door. Most likely yours; and that means that a struggle took place before they dragged you out. The boot-prints on the dashboard and the undamaged part of the windshield look like they came from your Doc Martens.

You had a gun, Greg. Why didn't you use it?

I'm pulling another print off of the armrest when my pager goes off. Wendy. She has the results from the SAE kit.

I close my hands into fists and hold still until they stop shaking. It takes a long time.

* * *

Warrick and Catherine meet me in the DNA lab that I still think of as yours. Grissom's already there, and he closes the door after we come in.

Wendy's spinning her chair back and forth and staring at her knees. You're still friendly with most of the lab techs, I remember, and even though you were already in the field when she transferred in, you like to hang around the labs and hit on her when you don't have anything better to do.

She can't seem to look any of us in the eye as she holds the paper out in Grissom's general direction.

_The test came back positive._

I close my eyes. I knew that already, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear.

_We recovered semen. Multiple donors._

Catherine covers her face with both hands. Warrick swears and spins and kicks the metal trashcan so hard that it bounces off the wall with a loud clang and falls over on its side, vomiting swabs and tissues and latex gloves onto the pristine linoleum floor.

I flinch at the sudden noise, but Grissom doesn't move at all for a long moment. He's staring at the wall of glass separating DNA from Ballistics, and his reflection looks ancient. Finally, he looks down at the paper clutched in his hand.

_Did you run the samples through CODIS?_

Yes. We got two hits.

How many--

His voice falters, but he clears his throat and goes on quickly enough that I can almost believe his composure.

_How many donors were there?_

Donors. Like we're talking about cheek swabs. Wendy blinks rapidly, still staring at the floor.

_Three. There was also blood under his fingernails that doesn't match any of the semen. Male. No hits in CODIS._

Catherine nods, opens her mouth, closes it again. It's Warrick who finally speaks.

_So we're looking at a minimum of four assailants here._

Looks that way.

I almost don't recognize the voice as my own. Grissom glances at me, face unreadable, before speaking.

_I'll call Brass. See if we can track them down._

And then, painfully,

_Good work, Wendy._

* * *

Warrick finds me in the gym after the shift is over, beating the hell out of a punching bag. My swings are as wild and uncoordinated as a toddler's and I know my eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn't say anything, just sets down his duffle and works the kinks out of his shoulders before taking up his spot at the bag next to mine. His blows are solid, measured, and the even _thud thud thud_ calms me, a little. Enough for me to start pacing myself before I pull something.

When I stop, my knuckles and shoulders are sore and I'm going to have to change the bandage on my right hand again. Warrick stops too, pulls out a water bottle and takes a long drink before passing it over to me.

_You want to talk, man?_

Talking's just about the last thing I want to do right now.

He nods. Unsurprised.

_When you finish up here, we're heading over to the hospital to see Greg._

That's also one of the last things I want to do right now. I don't know if I can stand to talk to you and pretend that everything's normal when I've got the images of what happened running through my head like some kind of hellish film loop.

The expression on Warrick's face makes it clear that it was more of an order than an invitation, though, so I nod and head toward the showers without trying to argue.


	4. Visiting Hours

Warrick steers me out of the building with one hand on my shoulder--not quite forceful, but enough pressure to make it clear that I'm not going to get a chance to break and run.

Not that I would anyway. Or I don't think I would. I don't know. I'm so on edge, and I haven't really slept since you went missing. The world is going fuzzy around the edges and I can't seem to think.

Maybe that's just as well.

Catherine and Grissom are waiting for us in the parking lot, and they both give me the same too-sympathetic look that Warrick's been directing at me since I got out of the showers. I hunch my shoulders, feeling obscurely guilty, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. Like I'm giving something away by being upset.

We take Catherine's car, and she doesn't even roll her eyes at Warrick when he puts on one of his hip-hop CD's. I hate this crap, but at least it makes a little bit of a dent in the silence.

Grissom rolls his window down and tilts his face into the early-morning breeze, eyes closed. I sit still, palms on my thighs, painfully casual, boots planted on the floor. My hand is throbbing.

* * *

Sara gets to the hospital a few minutes after we do. Grissom must have called her. She's clutching a black envelope and a Marilyn Manson action figure, and when Grissom raises his eyebrows at her, she scowls.

_I stopped at Spencer's Gifts. I thought it would make him smile._

Her tone borders on open hostility. Grissom puts his hands up, pacifically, and doesn't say anything.

It's just after six in the morning. I guess I expected someone to give us shit about showing up this early, but none of the nurses we pass in the hallways say anything. Your mother is dozing in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair outside your room. Catherine shakes her shoulder gently, and she wakes with a start.

_Have you been here all night?_

She nods. Her eyes are red and there's a kind of helpless desperation written into the lines of her face.

_He won't let me in. He doesn't want to see anybody. He looks--_

Her voice shudders out on a sob, but I can guess. You looked bad enough last night, and after a day for the bruises to swell and discolor--well, I can picture it. I don't want to, but I can.

Catherine puts a hand on her shoulder and looks up at Grissom, like he's going to be the voice of reason here.

_Well, what do you want to do?_

Maybe it should be comforting that he looks just as lost as I feel, but it isn't.

_I don't know._

I don't know what to do either, and Warrick just shoves his hands in his pockets and looks awkward, but Sara shoulders past all of us and jerks the door open.

_Greg? Greg, we're here to see you and we're not going away until you talk to us. Greg? Do you hear--_

Hey, Sara.

Your voice. You're slurring your words, and judging by the stitches on your lower lip, I guess I should be impressed that you can talk at all. You sound resigned, but you don't try to order us out of the room. I guess you know as well as I do that it's pointless to even try to argue with Sara when she's in a temper like this.

Your mother makes a strangled noise in her throat and sways in place, like she wants to throw herself at you but can't figure out a way to hug you that won't do even more damage. I know exactly how she feels. Finally, she settles for sinking onto the edge of the bed and running her fingers over and over your cheeks, your jaw, touching every part of your face that isn't bruised or swollen. There aren't many.

_Greg, oh, Greg, sweetheart, _kjære,_ what happened to you, who did this to you--_

You reach up and wrap your long fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand gently away.

_Mom, I'm okay. Seriously, it looks worse than it is._

You almost manage to smile for her, and she sniffs and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

_Is there anything you need? Papa wanted to come with me, but I couldn't get plane tickets for both of us, and you know with his blood pressure--_

It's okay. I don't need anything, Mom. I'm okay.

It's so characteristic, in a sick kind of way, that you're the one being comforting. I distract myself by looking around the room. It's only been a day, but there are enough flowers that it's already starting to look like a greenhouse. There are cards, balloons, potted plants, and an artistically arranged fruit basket consisting of pineapples and mangoes. The card is addressed in David Hodges' prissy handwriting, and I can't help wondering if it's a lab rat in-joke or just Hodges being...Hodges.

In the middle of all that forced cheer, it's almost painful to look at you. They've cleaned you up and dressed you in blue scrubs that hang loose on your lanky frame and make you look even younger than usual.

You pat your mother's arm. Your fingers are splinted. I look away.

_Hey, are you guys just going to stand around there staring, or what? Sara, did you bring me a present?_

Sara jumps, then steps forward, holding out the card and the doll.

_I, uh, I know it's kind of lame, but at least it isn't a teddy bear, right?_

Thanks, Sara.

Open the card, it's funny.

She's wearing the tight little smile she gets when she's trying to hide how upset she is. You fumble the card out of the envelope and open it. From this angle, all I can see is a plain black cover with white letters that are too small for me to read, but you snort, sounding almost genuinely amused.

Warrick is next. He leans over to touch your shoulder gently. His poker face is much better than Sara's, but I know him well enough to see through it.

_Hey, Sanders. How you doing, man?_

Been better.

You'll be on your feet in no time.

Yeah. That's the plan.

Before anybody else can speak, there's a tentative knock at the door. Grissom's standing closest, and he opens it.

It's Sofia. She's in her work clothes, clutching a tape recorder and a notepad, and she blinks at the crowd.

_I--sorry. I didn't realize everybody was here._

You smile, as much as you can with the stitches in your lip. The effect is grotesque.

_What's up, Sofia?_

She holds up the tape recorder.

_Jim wanted me to come take your statement. I can come back later if you--_

No. That's okay, I'll do it now.

You sure?

Yeah.

Okay.

She looks around. Clears her throat awkwardly. Cool, composed Sofia--I don't think I've ever seen her look this lost.

_Would you guys mind stepping outside?_

Before she can even get the whole sentence out, your mother is shaking her head, clinging to your hand, and I can see you suppress a wince.

_I'm not leaving. I'm not--I can't just--_

Mom, it's okay.

You push her away, gently, and look up at the rest of us. Your face is unreadable.

_It's a police thing--look, you need to get some rest. Go back to the hotel, get some sleep. I'll see you later, okay?_

I can't just leave.

Please, Mom. For me.

She bites her lip and looks up, eyes flitting between the six of us. I give her my best fake smile and step forward.

_Why don't you let me call you a cab, Mrs. Sanders? Greg's right, you need to get some real sleep._

I hold out my arm and she takes it, fingers cool and tentative. She looks back at you like she's expecting you to change your mind, but you're staring intently at your blanket-covered knees as I lead her out of the room.

I call a cab and wait outside with her until it shows up. Sooner or later the poor woman is going to notice that we keep heading her off--she's related to you, after all, and she might be flaky but she probably isn't stupid--but for now exhaustion and worry are winning out. I open the door for her and promise to call immediately if anything changes, and when the cab pulls away from the curb I stand there for a long time, staring after it.

Everybody else is waiting in the lobby when I come back inside. Sara's sitting close enough to Grissom that their knees are touching, and she looks up when I open the door.

_Greg threw us out, too._

Of course you did.

* * *

We wait for an hour.

Sofia comes out of the room with her jaw set, and she shakes her head jerkily when I open my mouth.

_He said to tell you guys to go home._

Warrick sighs loudly and stands up, stretching his hands over his head. Catherine blinks at him. She still looks dazed, and I don't think I've ever seen her go this long without saying a word.

Grissom looks at them, then at Sofia, then nods.

_That's his decision. I think we should respect it._

* * *

I don't leave with them. Grissom gives me another one of his piercing looks when I tell them that I just need to go for a walk, clear my head. He knows I'm lying, but he doesn't say anything.

I do go for a walk. A long one, striding down unfamiliar side streets like I have some kind of purpose. It takes me a good forty-five minutes to make my way back to the hospital, and by the time I get there my feet are sore and my collar is sticking to the back of my neck and my head isn't any clearer than when I started.

I should call a cab, go pick my truck up from the labs and go home, but instead I let myself into the air-conditioned building and head up to your room. A nurse is stepping out of the doorway when I get there. She's middle-aged and matronly, vaguely familiar, and when she sees me she motions me over.

_Are you his--you know, his partner?_

Why does everyone think that?

_No, ma'am. Just a friend._

Her smile is sympathetic, and I can tell she doesn't believe me.

_He's sleeping, but if you want to go in..._

I should say no. It's not my place to sit by your bed and watch you sleep, and I should go home and get some sleep myself, but I find myself nodding.

_I'd like that._


	5. Broken Pieces

Your room smells like flowers and cleaning supplies. You really are sleeping this time, head tucked against your shoulder, hair flattened on one side, mouth open. Your breathing sounds gluey and too loud. Probably the broken nose.

I sink into the hard chair next to your bed. It's just as uncomfortable as it looks.

The nurse gives me another long, knowing look as she closes the door, and it pisses me off to think that she's probably congratulating herself for being so open-minded.

Or maybe I'm just pissed off because she's wrong. I know how it looks for me to be hanging around the hospital like a concerned boyfriend, and I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. I'm not even sure I want to be here; it hurts me just to look at you and I don't know the last time I've felt this helpless.

I should go. You're going to wake up any minute now and demand to know what I'm doing here, and I don't have anything resembling a good explanation.

Your hands are resting on the thin blanket covering your chest. You tore out the fingernail on your left index finger, and the middle and ring fingers on your right hand are splinted. Probably because you forgot to close your fist the right way before throwing a punch. You fought back.

I really should go. But the clock ticking quietly away, the rhythmic--albeit snuffly--sound of your breathing, the cool, dim quiet of this room with the shades drawn and the rest of the world on the other side of them...it's hypnotic, and my head nods forward of its own accord.

Just for a minute. I just need to close my eyes for a minute, then I'm out of here.

* * *

I sure as hell don't mean to fall asleep in that chair. To be honest, I would have figured it was probably impossible to fall asleep in a chair that uncomfortable, but it looks like I underestimated the effects of sleep deprivation.

But that's not the important thing. The important thing is that you're awake now, blinking at me and looking confused, and any second you're going to want an explanation that I don't have.

When you do speak, though, it's not the question I was expecting.

_What happened to your hand?_

I look down at my hand, at the bandage that's already starting to go a little ratty around the edges, then back up at you. It doesn't sound like you're kidding.

_You don't remember?_

Uh, no. Should I?

You bit me.

You grimace, go to rub your eyes with your right hand, pause, then switch hands.

_It's all kind of a blur. Shit. I'm sorry._

Hey, you got nothing to apologize for. It's not a big deal.

Still, though. I mean, I was freaking out. I thought--

You don't finish the sentence, but you don't have to. I know what you thought.

_Hey. It's okay._

You nod, listlessly, and I shift in my seat. This is why I didn't want to come see you in the first place. All I want is for you to make some stupid joke, and I'm suddenly and unreasonably irritated that you don't, because that means I have to talk and I don't have a clue what to say.

I guess I just want things to be normal, but the universe isn't cooperating today. You put your head back against the pillows and blink hazily at the ceiling for several long seconds before turning back to me.

_What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I kicked you guys out earlier._

There's a little bit of a snap in your voice. Not much, but enough to make the painful knot in my chest untwist a little.

_Technically, you didn't kick me out. I went to call your mom a cab._

I guess that's true.

I know it is.

My voice sounds almost normal, light and teasing, but you don't look fooled. This is one of those times I kind of wish you were actually as dense as you'd like everybody to think.

_I just don't feel like playing along, you know? Not right now. I'm too fucking tired._

And now I feel guilty on top of irritated, because I know exactly how it feels to sit in a hospital bed all broken into a million little pieces and try to pretend that everything's fine. Doesn't stop me wanting to try and put you back together, though. Even though I know I can't.

_I'm sorry, man._

Not your fault.

Not like--I mean, I'll go. If you want.

Nah.

It's not what I was expecting to hear, and I'm gathering myself to stand up when the words register. I sink back into the seat, awkwardly. My ass is going numb, and I realize distantly that I have no idea how long I've been sitting here.

_You sure?_

Yeah. Just don't start trying to make me feel better or I'm going to hit you with my IV pole.

It makes me smile, even though I know you well enough to see through the joke. You never can be serious when you're hurting.

_Fair enough. Anything I can get you?_

Water? There's some on the nightstand.

The plastic cup is half-hidden behind an obnoxiously large African violet, and I'm wondering just what the hell people are expecting you to do with all these flowers. I can't quite picture you taking them home and watering them. In fact, if I know you at all, half the plants will be dead by the time you're released from the hospital.

When I lean in to help you steady the cup, I catch a whiff of the chemical-sweet smell of morphine. They've got you on the good stuff.

When you're finished drinking we just sit there for a while, not talking. It doesn't take long for your eyes to slide closed again. A curl of sandy hair falls across your eyelids, and I practically have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching out and brushing it back.

I remember a night, years ago, waking up in the hospital from dreams of eerie green light and dark earth and no air. Waking up with a scream bitten back behind my teeth, sweating, skin still burning from the ant bites. It was way past visiting hours, but I remember you sitting by the bed, chin propped in your hand, watching me like you'd been there for a while. You jumped a little when I turned toward you, smiled at me. Neither of us said a word, and I dropped off to sleep again without even wondering what you were doing.

The next morning, you were gone. You never said anything about it and I chalked the whole thing up to pain medication and wishful thinking, but now I'm not so sure.

Hell, I don't know what to think. I set the water glass down and watch you until I'm sure you're sleeping, then stand up, quietly, and leave.

On my way down the stairs, I call a cab, and when I get home I don't even bother to close the curtains against the sun before climbing into bed.

* * *

When my alarm goes off at seven, I actually feel rested. I shower and shave and drop by the nearest Chinese takeout place on my way in to the labs.

An hour into the shift, I'm heading from Brass's office toward the receptionist's desk when Warrick intercepts me, putting one big hand on my shoulder.

_Hey, Nick. Wasn't expecting you in this early._

I shrug.

_Yeah, well, here I am. You seen Brass? Been trying to track him down for twenty minutes._

Uh, no. Look, why don't we head down to the break room and grab a cup of coffee?

His tone is painfully casual. I blink at him.

_What? Man, this is kind of important, you know?_

Sure, yeah. I just think it would be a good idea--

He glances over my shoulder, eyes widening, and then his grip tightens suddenly.

_Seriously, Nick, I think we should just--_

I turn my head. Brass and Sofia are leading a cuffed, scruffy man down the hall toward the holding cell. I squint at the back of his greasy head, and then he turns. Just a little, enough for me to make out his profile.

I recognize him. Dennis. Dennis something. Age 35, two priors for assault. He doesn't look much different from his mug shot. I saw it last night.

It only takes a few seconds to make the connection, but when I try to lunge forward Warrick's already got a pretty good grip on me. He knows me too well.

_Let me go!_

Calm down, man. Nick. Would you just calm the hell down?

Yeah, I'll calm down, just as soon as I rip his head off, I'll calm right down--

You want Grissom to pull you off the case too? Because he will. You know he will.

That's enough to penetrate the red fog of anger, and I sag against his restraining arms. Warrick hangs on long enough to make sure that I'm not going to make a break for it, then lets me go. I step back. For a minute, I feel like I might start crying, right there in the labs, but it passes.

There are two vaguely familiar dayshift lab techs in the hallway staring at me, and then Hodges pokes his head around a doorframe.

_All done with the attempted murder?_

I don't have the energy to snap at him, so I just nod. He folds his arms and raises his eyebrows, doing a pretty good imitation of his usual insufferable attitude.

_Good. I have something you might want to see._


	6. Surveillance

_So you've been to see Sanders, right? How is he?_

Hodges has this habit of walking behind people while he talks. Normally it doesn't get to me, but right now I kind of want to punch him. I shrug tightly, and it's Warrick who answers.

_He'll pull through._

I sent him a fruit basket.

Yeah, we saw that. What have you got for us?

Okay. Aside from a veritable cornucopia of bodily fluids that I'd rather not think about, the rope you brought in contained trace amounts of ethanol, large hydrocarbons, and lead.

So--what? Moonshine?

And tar. Sloppy work. You see it sometimes when home distillers use radiators as a heating source. I don't speak from personal experience, of course, but--

Thank you, Hodges.

Warrick plucks the printout out of his hands before he can say anything else. The disgruntled look on Hodges' face almost makes me laugh. Warrick slants a glance at me.

_Not a whole lot of moonshiners in this part of the country. Could give us a lead on where they stashed him._

Right.

I clear my throat and peer at the paper in Warrick's hands, more so I won't have to look him in the face than because I think I'm going to see anything he won't.

_What about that guy Brass brought in?_

Dennis Bierda. One of the hits we got in CODIS. The other one--Joseph Duquette--is AWOL and we still don't have ID's on the other two perps. He's not talking.

It's on the tip of my tongue to offer to go in and see if I can get him talking, but I don't. Brass isn't that stupid, for one thing, and I want a conviction more than I want to beat Dennis Bierda and everybody else who laid a hand on you to a bloody pulp. Not much more, granted, but still.

_Um._

Hodges sounds almost diffident. I glance up. He rocks on the balls of his feet with an apologetic expression on his face.

_Wendy is working on something for Catherine right now, but she wanted me to let you guys know that the blood Sara collected from under his nails wasn't a match to any of the blood or, um, other fluids collected at the scene._

Yeah, she already told us that.

Ah, but what she didn't tell you is that it did have seven alleles in common with the other unidentified donor.

A blood relative. That's just sick.

I clench my jaw and don't say anything. This whole situation is already fucked up beyond belief, and every time I think it couldn't possibly get worse, it does.

* * *

Archie pages us around midnight. When we come into the A/V lab, he's wearing headphones and watching the screen with an expression of intense concentration. The blue glow illuminates deep hollows under his eyes and there are several empty coffee mugs on the floor by his chair, where they can't spill on the equipment, but other than that he looks as cool and professional as ever. He glances up when I rap on the doorframe, slides the headphones off.

_I think I might have something for you guys._

We lean over his shoulders to peer at the screen. I was expecting surveillance from the diner, but he's running audio.

_What's this?_

911 call.

The girl who found Greg?

Yeah. At first we thought she dialed it in anonymously because she didn't want to get in trouble for trespassing--

--yeah, and that's why she wasn't at the scene when we showed up. So?

Well, on a hunch, I traced the call. She was nowhere near that factory. The number was a pay as you go cell phone, but the location--

He pulls up a map and points. It's a residential district all the way across town. Warrick peers at it, and his lip curls.

_Nice address. I think I've been out that way twice in the past week alone._

So--what, she found Greg, then drove all the way home before calling the cops?

I'm picturing it now, and it makes me sick with anger that someone could have seen you like that and just walked away. I guess I should be grateful that she called it in at all, but I'm not in a grateful mood.

Archie's shaking his head, though.

_No, see, that's what I thought too, but here's where it gets interesting. Here._

He hands me a set of headphones and I fit them over my ears as he scrolls back to the beginning and presses play.

_911, please state the nature of your emergency._

I--there's a man. He's hurt real bad.

Ma'am, can you tell me where you are?

I can't--look, he's in the old shoe factory on, uh, Green Valley Parkway. I think he's a cop.

She sounds young and--not panicky but nervous, secretive. Her voice is low and quick, like she wants to make sure that she isn't overheard. I glance over at Archie and he raises his eyebrows and nods. Behind us, Warrick shifts his weight restlessly.

_All right, ma'am, I'm sending a unit to that location now. Please stay on the line and--_

I gotta go.

The line goes dead. I slide the headphones off and glance over at Archie.

_Did you hear it?_

Hear what?

Right before she hung up--here. Let me take out the 911 operator and turn it up...

He plays it back again. With the volume turned up, I can hear the hissing, popping noises of a bad cell connection bubbling under her voice. And then, just after she gives the location, another voice in the background. A man's voice, quick, angry.

_Emma, what the hell are you doing? Is that the cops? Give me the goddamn phone or I swear--_

I gotta go.

Click.

Archie plays it again for Warrick, and when he's done listening, he sits back with a thoughtful expression on his face.

_We can't say for sure that she knows anything. Could be a hundred reasons the guy didn't want her talking to the cops._

I only notice that my leg is bouncing impatiently when I bang my knee on the bottom of the desk. I feel restless, twitchy, and unreasonably irritated at Warrick's caution, and it takes an effort not to snap at him.

_Some of those shoe impressions I picked up at the scene were pretty small. Could have come from a woman. If we can find out who she is--_

He rubs his eyes.

_Well, it's all we've got to work with unless Brass can get Bierda to talk._

At the mention of Bierda I flinch and Warrick hesitates, then touches my arm.

_You okay?_

If one more person asks me that, I'm going to break something.

_I'm fine. Let's just focus on the case, okay?_

Sure, man. If you want to take a break, though...

I said I'm fine. Did the diner send over the surveillance tapes?

Archie looks back and forth between us, then nods.

_I haven't really gone through it yet, but--_

Let's do that now.

Okay.

Warrick pushes his chair back and stands up.

_I'm going to go see if I can track down whoever bought that phone. Page me if you get anything, okay?_

Archie's pulling up the video, and I nod without looking away from the screen. Warrick claps me on the shoulder and leaves.

* * *

_Okay. Greg used his credit card at the diner, so we have an approximate timeline._

Doesn't take that long to pick up a cup of coffee. Go back ten minutes.

Archie scrolls back, and there you are, in grainy black and white, climbing out of your little Jetta. You're wearing the jeans we found at the factory, the ones with the holes in the knees that Grissom threatened to put through a wood shredder if he caught you wearing them to work again. Your tac vest is open, hanging loose from your bony shoulders.

You pat your pocket--checking for your wallet, I guess--and thumb your keys. The lights on your car flash, and you vault over the railing and disappear out of the frame.

I glance over at Archie. His jaw is set, brow furrowed, and I remember that he's your friend, too. It makes me wonder if he's been putting off watching the surveillance, but I don't ask.

_They have video inside?_

Just the camera over the register. Here.

He pulls it up. The camera reveals an assortment of mismatched tables and chairs, tile floor, and a wall of plate-glass windows. I can't see your car through them, which means that you must have parked on the side of the building. If you hadn't--if you'd pulled in front of the windows--

I stop that thought in its tracks. Agonizing over 'what-if's' won't help catch these bastards, and it sure as hell won't make me feel any better.

You push the door open and come in, glancing up to smile at someone out of the frame. Your hair is tangled, and I wonder if you just rolled out of bed. If you were going to brush your hair and splash water on your face in the locker room so that Grissom wouldn't hassle you about your unprofessional appearance.

We watch as you make a big production out of picking out a pastry. The cashier's probably a pretty girl, because even without audio I know what you look like when you're laying on your best game. The crooked smile, the way you tilt your head, oozing insincerity in a way that probably shouldn't charm me like it does.

The cashier must be less susceptible, though. You leave a few minutes later, coffee and pastry in hand. The same coffee cup that I found in your cup holder, full of broken safety glass.

Nobody follows you out.

I clear my throat, and Archie starts.

_Go back to the outside camera._

Right. Okay.

He switches back. We watch you get out of the car again, lock the doors, go inside.

For several minutes, nothing. Then another figure enters the frame. He's wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up so that his face is shrouded in shadow, and something cold and sick drops into the pit of my stomach.

He tries your driver's side door, peers in the windows, then looks behind him. And this is maybe the worst thing in the world, watching this and hoping to see police cars converge on the scene, or--hell, a meteor drop out of the sky and land on him--and knowing, _knowing_ what's going to happen next.

I want to look away, but I can't. I keep watching as another man approaches. This one's wearing a stocking over his face and carrying a slim-jim. They unlock your back door and climb inside and then there's nothing to do but wait, and watch, and wait.

And then there you are again. You set coffee and pastry on the roof of your car while you fumble for your keys and I want to scream at you. Archie inhales harshly. I don't look at him.

You unlock your door and get inside. And then nothing. For what seems like hours, there's nothing. No movement. The car doesn't start, and the windows are too dark to see what's going on inside.

My injured hand twinges painfully, and I unclench my fists with an effort.

Another endless moment. I close my eyes, trying to keep from picturing what must be happening. What must have happened, inside that car. When I open them again, the car's on and as I watch, it backs out of the parking spot, maneuvering jerkily, like the driver doesn't know what he's doing.

Or like he has a gun to his head.

I'm clenching my fists again. When I look over at Archie, I'm not that surprised to see that his face is all crumpled up like he's trying not to cry. When he speaks, though, his voice is even.

_Let me see if I can get an ID on one of them._

I nod. I don't trust my voice.

* * *

Archie goes through the video frame-by-frame, but there's nothing. They must have known about the camera--suspected, at least--because the best angle that he can get isn't enough to ID either of them.

I want to knock the computer off the table, but it won't help to trash Archie's lab, much as I might want to. I punch my thigh instead, hard enough to bruise.

* * *

Evidence, laid out stark and painful.

The stack of photos Sara took at the hospital is in one corner of the table. The top one is a full-color shot of your jutting hipbone, which is marred by five purple-black bruises, pressed into pale skin like a parody of fingerprints.

I'm not looking at the photos, though. I'm looking at the footprints I collected at the factory, and I'm definitely not thinking about bruises on your hips, or how big the hands that made them must have been, or how you looked so cheerful and casual in the video, just a guy on his way to work. I'm not thinking about anything, because this is just a case. Just a case, and I have a job to do.

I've just identified one set of prints as belonging to a pair of Sketchers, woman's size seven, when Warrick pages me.

The cell phone was bought with a credit card belonging to one Emma Doyle. Brass is bringing her in.


	7. Interviews

_Take your time._

_I just want to get this over with._

_Okay. Go ahead. But if you need to stop--_

_I'm fine._

Do you think if you say that often enough, we'll start believing it?

Your recorded voice is raspy and almost completely without inflection. It sends a chill down my spine to hear it. I'd much rather stick to Sofia's notes, but she left a lot out. That's not like her--usually she's obsessively thorough--but I guess I can't really blame her this time.

Warrick comes into the room behind me, and I pause the tape.

_Brass went out with a black and white to pick up the girl._

_Yeah, I heard you the first time you told me._

I need to stop biting Warrick's head off, especially since he won't even snap back. He just sighs and folds himself into one of the absurdly small rolling chairs next to me.

_So, what's this?_

_Greg's statement. Figured I could go through it while we were waiting._

_Hell of a way to pass the time._

_Yeah._

_Nick, uh--_

I tense at his cautious tone. Whatever he's about to say, I don't want to hear it, but he's got a determined look on his face and I know he's not backing down this time.

_What?_

_Look, you don't have to do this. Seriously, man, I can take it from here._

_Not happening._

_You've been going crazy the past couple of days._

_And you think being off the case is going to help? At least this way I'm fucking doing something._

He recoils a little at the profanity. I don't swear that much at all, and never at work. There's a first time for everything, I guess.

_Okay, man. I just wanted to let you know that the option's still on the table._

_No, it isn't._

_Okay._

There's a long awkward pause. I feel like I should apologize, but my whole body is still humming with restless anger and I can't make myself do it. Finally, I reach over and press the 'play' button. Your voice fills the room again.

_Okay. I was on my way to work, right? There's this diner I stop at for coffee sometimes. Good apple turnovers._

_Meducci's._

_Yeah. How'd you--_

_We found your car there._

_Right. Right, well, I got my coffee and my food and went back to my car. I must have left it unlocked. Fucking stupid._

_Greg--_

_There were two guys in the backseat. One of them had a gun. I was--I couldn't even get my gun out and he's got this .45 jammed under my chin._

_You're sure it was a .45?_

_Pretty distinctive gun, you know? Yeah, it was a .45. He told me to drive around the back of the diner. The other guy took my service pistol. I don't know what he did with it._

_And you didn't get a look at either of their faces?_

_They had stockings over their faces. Um._

_Anything distinctive that you can remember would help._

_I know, Sofia. I do this for a living, remember?_

You sound irritated. It's the first time any emotion at all has colored your voice, and it makes me smile. Next to me, Warrick chuckles, but the tape's still rolling and you're still talking.

_Okay. Uh, the one guy had a swastika tattooed on the back of his wrist._

_So they weren't wearing gloves._

_No. Soon as the car was off they tried to get a blindfold on me. He put the gun down. I fought back. They knocked me out._

Blood smeared across the seats and bootprints on the dashboard and the place where your foot went through the windshield, the shattered driver's side window with hair caught in the jagged edges of the glass. And I've always been good at putting together the story of what happened with what's left behind, but I don't want to picture this. I don't want to imagine you struggling in that little car, the harsh sound of breath coming too hot in a small, stuffy space, bracing yourself against the seat to kick the window out. Kicking and punching and doing it wrong because you were lying about those kickboxing classes, but you didn't let the broken knuckles stop you. The broken tooth. The broken nose, which you probably got when they slammed your face into the window.

You don't say any of that, though. For several moments, you don't say anything at all.

_Greg? If you want, we can finish later--_

_No. I woke up in the back of a van. I was pretty out of it. They had the blindfold on, my hands tied up. Not my legs. They took my clothes. They were--there were three of them, I think. They were laughing at me. Said they were going to teach me a lesson._

I drop my head into my hands, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes until I can see bright shapes on the insides of my eyelids. Warrick's chair squeaks as he shifts, then shifts again, and God, I just want to turn the tape off and walk into the holding cell and shoot Dennis Bierda right between the eyes and damn the consequences. I don't move. I don't know if I can move.

Sofia's voice, when she speaks, sounds pained.

_So this was personal._

_I don't know. I guess. I didn't recognize their voices, though._

_Okay. We'll check it out._

_I tried to get loose. I swear, I just thought that if I could get my hands free--I don't know what I was going to do. Something. And then the van stopped. And they were all climbing into the back. You know the rest._

_Yeah. We know the rest._

_Figured you already got Wendy to process the kit. Rush order, right? Everybody at the labs knows, don't they?_

_Greg--_

_Don't they._

_Yeah._

_You know, it's funny. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, but I'm just so fucking--embarrassed, you know? That I'm going to go back to work and they're all going to know._

You sound so lost.

_They left me in the van. After. They were all pretty wasted. I don't know how long. Like I said, I was--_

_--out of it._

_Yeah. Concussion. I guess. Next thing I know the van's moving again. They tied up my feet. I kicked one of them pretty good. They dumped me on the ground and drove off, and the next thing I remember is Nick telling me that the ambulance was there._

_That's it?_

_What, you wanted more?_

It's a weak attempt at humor, but Sofia manages a dry chuckle.

_No, that's plenty. Thank you, Greg. I know this must be--I can't imagine how hard this must be for you._

_Whatever. Look, are they all still out there?_

_They're all there. Do you want me to send them in?_

_No. Tell them to go home._

And that's where the tape ends. I drop my hands and stare at the tabletop for a long time before someone clears their throat. I look up. It's Brass. He's standing in the doorway and looking as awkward as I've ever seen him.

_I'm not interrupting anything, am I?_

Warrick stands smoothly, stretches.

_No, we were just finishing up. Right, Nick?_

_Right._

My voice is rusty. I almost don't recognize it as my own. I clear my throat and try again.

_Right._

Brass looks back and forth between us.

_Well, our mysterious woman is here, if either of you wanted to observe the interview._

Warrick opens his mouth, but I cut in before he can say anything.

_I'll do it._

* * *

Emma Doyle is a tired-looking twenty-something, wearing cheap bangle earrings and a bleach-stained hoodie that's several sizes too big for her. Mouse-brown hair hangs in her eyes as she stares at her hands, which are twisting nervously in her lap. Sofia slides a cup of coffee across the table and she takes it, cupping it in her palms but not drinking.

_Emma, I wanted to thank you for coming down to talk to us._

_Sure._

_Do you want cream and sugar for that?_

Her fingers twitch convulsively, denting the paper cup, and she shakes her head. She still hasn't looked up. Brass comes into the observation room to stand next to me. In the glass, I can see his impassive reflection, but I don't look over at him.

_She agreed to come down to the station to give a statement. We don't have enough to hold her._

_Right. You think she knows something?_

_Yeah. Her boyfriend was over there, almost blew a gasket when we showed up. I'd bet good money that he's involved one way or another, but unless we can get her to point the finger at him, we got nothing._

I nod. When I walked into the observation room I was all set to hate Emma Doyle's guts, but now I can't help feeling a little sorry for her. Her thin shoulders are hunched under the baggy sweatshirt, and she flinches every time Sofia addresses her.

_Okay, so why don't you start from the beginning? We traced that 911 call to your cell phone, and we found your shoe impressions at the factory._

_Yeah._

_Do you mind telling me what you were doing there?_

_I was taking a walk. I go out there sometimes to clear my head, you know?_

_That's a tough neighborhood for a midnight stroll._

She just shrugs. Not denying it, but not offering anything else.

_Okay, so you were taking a walk._

_Yeah. I was by the factory, and I saw these guys dragging somebody out of the back of a van. He was all tied up._

_How many guys?_

_Two. Uh, two guys._

_Did you recognize either of them?_

_It was dark._

_Okay. That's fine._

Sofia nods, opens the file in front of her and leafs through it. At first I think she's just giving Emma time to squirm, but at long last she pulls out a glossy photo and slides it across the table. It's you, of course. A candid shot, one I vaguely recognize from the office Christmas party. You're leaning back in a lab chair with your feet up, looking up to grin at whoever was taking the picture. Catherine, probably. She's always ambushing people with a camera at those parties.

It's a calculated move on Sofia's part, showing Emma a candid when she could just as easily have used your ID photo, and I have to admire it even though it makes me wince.

_How about this guy? Do you recognize him?_

_Yeah. That's the other guy. The one who was tied up._

Emma touches the photo tentatively, one pale finger tracing the smiling curve of your cheek.

_He's just a kid._

And maybe it should make me laugh, her calling you a kid when you're probably older than she is, but she sounds so tired. She finally looks up, pushing her hair back behind her ears. Her face is unlined, but she has the eyes of an old woman.

Sofia nods thoughtfully. If she's thinking any of the same things as I am, she doesn't let it show.

_His name is Greg Sanders. He works here at the crime lab._

_I thought he was a cop._

_He's a crime-scene investigator._

_Is he okay?_

_He's in the hospital. He was badly injured. Emma, if there's anything else you can tell us, anything that could help us catch the people who did this to him--_

_I didn't see anything. I waited until they left, then I went home and called the ambulance. I didn't want to get caught trespassing. I can't afford the fine._

_Are you sure you don't remember anything else?_

_I'm sure._

Brass shifts next to me, and when I look over at him, he raises his eyebrows.

_Any thoughts?_

_Well, she's lying._

_You know that, I know that, but it's not going to help unless we can get something on her. Can we?_

_I only found two sets of shoe impressions at the scene--hers, and another set that looks like it belonged to a male. So she was inside the factory, and the part about the two guys is BS._

_Yeah, that's not going to be enough to get me a warrant._

_That's all I have._

I can hear the frustration in my own voice, but Brass doesn't comment on it. That's what I like about him, I decide. He knows how to mind his own business.

In the interrogation chamber, Emma is standing up. Sofia remains seated, watching her consideringly.

_I should get home. I'm sorry I couldn't help more._

_That's okay. Would you like me to get someone to give you a ride home?_

_I'll call a cab._

_Okay. Here's my card; if you remember anything else, don't hesitate to give me a call._

Brass snorts, cynically.

_If you decide to quit lying through your teeth, don't hesitate to call._

_Yeah._

_You think it was the boyfriend?_

_Hard to say, but there are still three assailants that we haven't accounted for. According to Greg's statement, he didn't get a good look at any of them. They blindfolded him._

_I remember. Poor kid._

That's right. Brass was there when we found you. I guess I forgot that. To tell the truth, I'm really not too clear on anything that happened after we walked into that building and saw you laying there on the floor.

Brass is still looking at me, but I can't tell what he's thinking. He doesn't say anything, and I guess that's just as well. I've had just about all the sympathy I can take tonight.

* * *

After the end of the shift, I find myself at the hospital, sitting in the parking lot with the engine running and staring up at what I'm pretty sure is your window. A yellow cab pulls up in front of the building and your mother climbs out of it, hands the driver a wad of singles without even bothering to count it.

I watch her enter the building, and then I put my truck in reverse and get the hell out of there.


	8. Interlude

Breathe in. Lungs aching, and my whole body is straining for oxygen. I have to fight to keep the rhythm of my breath even, timed to the impact of my feet on the pavement. I'm in good shape, but I've been running for hours.

Breathe in. Even breaths, two beats in, two beats out, exhalation burning across my tongue like engine exhaust. It's still dark, still cool here in the suburban wasteland on the outskirts of Vegas, but my t-shirt and sweats are soaked through. The soles of my feet are numb and I know that when I get home and strip out my clothes, my skin's going to be blotchy red. My eyes are stinging, but at least this way I can tell myself it's the sweat dripping into them.

My legs aren't sore. They've gone way beyond sore and now moving them is like trying to lift two lead weights that are attached at the hips. If I can get up my porch steps without collapsing, I'm going to count myself lucky.

My mom called earlier. She knows when I get home from work, and I haven't been returning her voicemails. She's worried about me. I told her I'm fine.

She asked about you. I told her you were fine, too. She read about the kidnapping in the papers. You're going to love that.

Breathe in, heart pounding, and usually I go for a run when I need to clear my head, get my thoughts straight, but now all I want to do is drown out the memory of your voice with the sound of my own footsteps.

My toe catches on a crumbling corner of the sidewalk and I go down hard, hands out to catch my weight. And now my ankle's throbbing and I'm going to have a set of scrapes on my palms to go along with the bite you gave me.

A kid passes by on a bike. On his way to school, from the backpack. He's ten or so, and he brakes, puts his sneakered feet down on the pavement, peering over at me.

_Hey, you okay?_

I wave a hand at him, nodding. He gives me a dubious look, but goes on his way. His mother probably told him not to talk to strangers. Not that I could talk if I wanted to, because now that I'm not focusing on the rhythm of my breath it's coming in huge, uncontrolled gasps that sound a lot like sobs. I brace my elbows on the pavement and lever myself up until I'm more or less kneeling and then suddenly I am sobbing, on my knees on the sidewalk in a nice neighborhood with the sun just cresting the rim of the sky and crying so hard that I can hardly see.

If somebody comes outside and sees me I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to them, but nobody does. And maybe I did manage to wear myself out a little, because the fit passes after a few minutes, leaving me drained and aching and more tired than before.

There's no strength in my muscles. It feels like the flesh is hanging loose from my bones, like one wrong move might make it slough off and leave my skeleton still kneeling here while the world goes on around me.

My job must be starting to affect my imagination, because I'm pretty sure it never used to be this gruesome.

Eventually, I manage to stand up and orient myself and start stumbling in the direction of home.

* * *

In my bathroom at home, I rinse the grit and pebbles out of the scrapes on my hands and splash water on my face. My reflection is haggard, eyes red and puffy and lined with wrinkles that look like they've been carved into my face with a knife.

My ankle's probably sprained and I wrap it clumsily, then re-bandage my hand. The swelling's gone down and it's starting to scab over and I'm almost positive it's going to scar. The thought doesn't bother me as much as it probably should.

I should go to bed, but instead I pull a beer out of the fridge and turn on the TV. There's nothing on, and after a while I stop flipping through the channels and just sit there, rolling the cool bottle between my hands and staring blankly at the screen while cramps knot themselves up my calves.

When the sun climbs high enough to peer in through the shades, I dump my half-full beer in the sink and go lie down on my unmade bed without turning the TV off. The walls are thin and I can hear the low mumble of a game-show host, the cheering audience, the shiny, ringing sound of coins. It distracts me, a little, from the static buzz that seems to fill the spaces in my skull.  


* * *

I don't remember drifting off to sleep, but I come awake to raw agony, legs cramping and spasming. I groan and dig my hands into the muscles, trying to massage a little of the pain away, and that reminds me of the pinprick discomfort of skinned palms and healing bite. Jesus. At this rate, I'm going to be in the hospital right next to you, and I'll have nothing but my own stupidity to blame.

When I finally get my joints to unlock, I slide out of bed and get the muscle balm out of the bathroom cabinet. It's tricky to rub in without getting it into any of the scrapes, and this is one of those times I really wish there was somebody around to do this for me, but there isn't. There hasn't been for a long time. I've been with a few girls over the years--even fewer guys, because I try to keep a low profile, although the looks I've been getting at work since you went missing are starting to make me suspect that I'm a lot more transparent than I thought--but nobody special. Nobody to share the stupid little domestic things, cooking and arguing over socks on the floor and massaging sore muscles.

Normally, the thought makes me distantly sad, but right now I've got bigger things to worry about.


	9. Revelations

The cashier at the diner was the last person to see you before you were taken, so of course we talked to her that night. Or someone did--Brass, probably. Not me. I was busy having a nervous breakdown in the locker room, and when I think about it that way, maybe it does make sense that people have been treating me like I'm going to blow up at any minute.

Warrick and Catherine are back there now, at any rate. The same girl works the overnight shift tonight. I was going to go, but Catherine suggested--the kind of _suggestion_ that isn't actually a suggestion at all--that I stay at the labs and do some more digging around on Emma Doyle and her mysterious boyfriend. I don't know what she's worried about. It's not like I'm going to attack the girl or anything, but I saw her looking at the fresh bandages on my palms when I came in, and I know I'm walking with a limp. My legs are still sore. I guess I do kind of look like a mess.

Sara's been banished, too. Grissom has her working on an armed robbery over on the Strip; she told me in the locker room at the beginning of the shift. She's still pissed off about that. I don't think she's spoken to Grissom since we were at the hospital. I don't know what's going on between the two of them. You would, I guess. You've always paid more attention to the office gossip than I do, although I guess that hopeless crush you have on Sara might have something to do with it.

And you know, that's how I know that I'm completely screwed where you're concerned. Because I like Sara--honest, I do--but every time you start going on about her, I can't even look at her for hours. I'm an idiot. A jealous idiot.

For now, though, we're in the same boat, so when she drops in around two AM and asks if I want to take a coffee break, I take her up on it. I've been staring at a computer screen for the past three hours anyway, and the letters are starting to blur in front of my eyes.

* * *

The lab coffee's not nearly as good when you aren't around. When you're here you insist on brewing that expensive shit you like, but you won't leave the bag here so we can brew it ourselves. Someone once asked you why--I think it was Sara, actually--and you said that we'd just screw it up and your coffee was too good to waste. I think you're just a control freak. You hide it well, but you like to be needed, even if it's for something as stupid as coffee. It's a personality trait that should be annoying, but I've always found it kind of charming. Like your obsession with hair-care products and those ugly-ass shirts you used to wear around the labs.

I'm actually smiling when I sit down across from Sara, and it's only when she raises her eyebrows at me that I realize how strange the expression feels on my face. I haven't been smiling much lately.

There's a question in her face, but I just shake my head and take a sip of scalding coffee. It's the first time since you went missing that I've been able to think about you without feeling panicked, furious, or helpless, but I don't know how to explain that. Even though Sara might get it better than anybody else. She's always been the one who cares too much.

She spins her coffee mug in her slender hands, not drinking, and I'm wondering if she misses your coffee too when she speaks suddenly.

_I went to see Greg before I came in._

And of course she would bring you up. But she's your friend, and it's not her fault that I feel weirdly guilty about stopping by the hospital yesterday and not even going in.

_Yeah? How's he doing?_

_He's--good. He's looking a lot better. Tired, you know, with all the meds they pumped into him, but--_

The falsely bright tone abruptly disappears, and she looks down at the table.

_He threw me out. I didn't--it's like he's ashamed to even look at me. I didn't know what to say._

And that's exactly the last thing I want to think about--I guess there's some part of me that's hoping that as soon as the bruises and broken bones heal you're going to be back to normal--but Sara's looking lost and hurt and this isn't just about me. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. Her fingers are chilly.

Before I have to try to think of something comforting to say, though, Catherine ducks inside, tossing her hair back out of her face. She's still wearing sunglasses, big black shades that cover the top half of her face and obscure her expression.

_Hi, guys._

_Hey, Cath. You do know that it's the middle of the night, don't you?_

_It's the fluorescent lights. They kill my eyes._

Her voice is bland. Sara's lip curls as she gets up, dumps her full mug of coffee down the drain, and stalks out of the room. Catherine watches her leave.

_I don't seem to be making any friends tonight._

_She's upset._

_Yeah, so I gathered._

_How was the diner?_

_Nice place._

She stands there awkwardly for a moment, and I gesture at the seat that Sara just vacated.

_Come on, sit down. I won't bite. Did the cashier remember anything else?_

She smiles a little, sinks into the chair and pulls the shades off. I was expecting her eyes to be red and puffy, but they're just tired.

_She said that Greg got into it with a couple of other regulars a few days before he went missing._

_Got into it how?_

_I guess they started arguing inside, and it got physical out in the parking lot. She says her dad--he's the owner--she says he went out and broke it up, and everybody went their separate ways._

_There's nothing to that effect in the statement she gave Brass._

_Well, we were just trying to find him at the time. I don't think Jim even asked about that. She doesn't remember any names, but--_

_She's sure it was Greg?_

_I guess he goes there almost every day before work, has for years. She likes him. Says he always chats her up, leaves good tips._

_Sounds like Greg, for sure. You get descriptions of the guys? How many were there?_

_Three._

She hesitates, and I wrap both hands around my coffee mug, waiting for it.

_Nick, there's something else. She said that wasn't the first time Greg got into an altercation with that group. I guess he used to go in there with a boyfriend._

_A boyfriend._

_Yeah._

Catherine seems to find herself suddenly entranced by the grain pattern on the faux-wood tabletop. I breathe out a long sigh and let go of my mug, mind spinning.

_You think this was a hate-crime thing?_

_It's a theory. You don't seem that surprised._

_I'm not._

It's not entirely true. I didn't know you were into guys, but I've been kind of fixated on you for a good long time now, so sure, I've wondered. I've got a long list of reasons for not talking about it to people I work with, and I guess you do too, and now even if you ever were interested it's probably way too late to do anything about it.

I don't say that, though. I don't know whether or not Catherine's guessed about me. I'm pretty sure Warrick has, and Grissom, of course--well, I never could put one over on him. But I'm just as happy to let it stop there. Maybe I do owe Cath the truth, but now is not the time. Focus.

If you went to the diner with a boyfriend, that could give us motive. I know all too well how nasty people can get about that sort of thing, if you flaunt it in the wrong place. And an Italian diner that serves coffee and deep-fried crud to local construction workers might just be the wrong place.

That's how you are, though. It's never been enough for you to just be yourself--you like to shove it in everyone's face. Another thing I probably shouldn't like about you, especially now that it's got you in all this trouble. But all that bravado, all that attitude, that _spark--_

I guess that's why I fell for you in the first place. Idiot that I am.

I rap my knuckles on the table, decisively, and Catherine jumps.

_We need to go talk to Greg._

_What, now?_

_Yeah._

_Nick, it's two o'clock in the morning._

_So? He's been working the night shift for eight years. He'll be awake._

She cocks her head at me, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and I realize that she was expecting another temper tantrum when she came in here. I guess I haven't exactly been professional the past couple of days. I don't really care, but I open my mouth to say something apologetic anyway.

Catherine cuts me off with an abrupt motion and slides her sunglasses back on. The overhead lights flash off the dark lenses as she stands up.

_Right. Warrick is helping Grissom with something, so it's just you and me. Let's hit the road. You're driving._

My legs are still stiff when I stand, but I smile and catch the keys she tosses me.

_Whatever you say, boss._


	10. Confessions, Part 1

When we come into your room, you're sitting cross-legged and shirtless on your unmade bed, filling out a crossword puzzle in green ink, pen clutched awkwardly in your left hand. Grissom would want to strangle you; the man is neurotic as hell about his crosswords, and sometimes I think you just fill them out in pen--crossing out words when you make a mistake, which isn't often--just to get under his skin.

You look better. Physically, anyway; the swelling's gone down enough that you don't look like a troll anymore, although your face is still mottled with bruises and the black spider-leg stitches under your lower lip are painfully noticeable. They must have dialed back the painkillers. The IV's are gone, anyway, and when you look up at us, your eyes are alert.

You don't look happy to see us, but after what Sara told me, I was expecting that.

_What do you want?_

Catherine looks a little taken aback at the hostility in your voice, but she smiles tentatively.

_Hey, Greg. How are you feeling?_

Sore. Bored. Antisocial.

Subtlety's never really been your strong suit. Your eyes fall on me. I lean back against the doorframe, cool metal pressing into my spine, and give a lame little wave.

_Hey, Greggo._

You wrinkle your nose and shrug, one-shouldered, dismissing the greeting.

_Aren't you guys supposed to be working tonight?_

Catherine nods and visibly composes herself, straightening her spine and tossing her hair back from her face. She crosses the room and perches on the chair next to your bed, the same chair that I fell asleep in a few days ago.

_We are working, actually. Feel up to another interrogation?_

You sigh dramatically and slowly, painfully, swing your legs over the side of the bed until your feet are resting flat on the floor. You're moving like an old man. Which I guess is better than laying flat on your back, doped to the gills, but it's still painful to watch.

_How long is this going to take? Because I am one eight-letter word for a Catholic ritual away from solving the puzzle faster than Grissom, and if I finish first he's buying me a month's supply of Thai takeout._

Catherine laughs, sounding startled.

_Try 'high mass'._

Hm.

You uncap your pen and inspect the newspaper in front of you for a moment, then scribble in the letters and press a button on your watch.

_Awesome. Two full minutes. Okay, I owe you. What do you want to know?_

Are you going to share your khao pad with me?

Food or questions, Cath. Pick one.

That stuff gives me heartburn anyway.

You smile a little, and it's so obviously fake that I wince, but at least you're trying. If Catherine notices--if it bothers her--she hides it well. But she's good at that.

_We talked to the cashier at Meducci's._

Dakota.

That's right. Nice girl.

Yeah, she is.

She said that you got into an altercation with a couple of men a few days earlier?

I don't really remember.

She said that it got physical. The owner had to break it up.

Oh, yeah. That.

You roll your eyes like getting into fistfights in diner parking lots is a regular pastime for you.

_Greg, why didn't you say something?_

Because it wasn't a big deal. Dakota always gets so freaked out about those guys, but seriously, it was totally minor.

She said it's not the first time that's happened.

Yeah, well, they're jerks.

Would you be able to identify any of them from a photo?

I can see the exact moment that you realize where we're going with this. It's not so much a change in your expression as it is a _lack_; your face is a perfect blank, and that scares me more than I want to admit.

Then you shake it off, press your thumbs against the bridge of your nose as though trying to stave off a headache.

_Sure, yeah. You think they were involved?_

Just trying to follow all the leads we have. If you don't feel up to it we can come back later...

Just show me the pictures.

Okay. This is the only one we have in custody right now...

She drops down to dig through the kit at her feet, and you glance up at me. I try to smile. You don't look like you're buying it, but one corner of your mouth curves up a little, like you appreciate the effort.

I open my mouth, although I don't have a clue what I'm going to say. Before I can get a word out, though, Catherine comes up with an 8x10 glossy of Dennis Bierda's mug shot, which she sets down on top of your crossword. You glance down at it, eyebrows knotting together before settling back into a bland expression as you look up at Catherine.

_Yeah, that's one of them. Daniel, Dennis, something like that._

Dennis. Dennis Bierda. How about this guy?

She hands you Joseph Duquette's mugshot. He's cut from the same mold as Bierda, although I don't think they're related; long, greasy hair, sallow face that would probably be completely unremarkable if it weren't for the expression, which puts me in mind of a hungry rat. Classic white-trash, the kind of guy we pick up all the time for hitting his girlfriend or running over a pedestrian on his way home from drinking his paycheck. The thought of someone like that putting his hands on you makes me sick.

You inspect this photo more carefully than the last before nodding.

_Yeah. He hung out with them sometimes, but I don't know his name. I thought you only had one guy in custody._

That's Joseph Duquette. He's still in the wind.

But you think he was involved.

Catherine hesitates, shifts in her seat, hesitates again. She's not going to be able to say it. I push myself away from the wall, and the movement catches your eyes.

_We know he was. He's in CODIS for a B&E a few years back. We matched his DNA to samples we collected--_

I can't finish, but you make a jerky motion with your chin and I know you caught my drift.

_They didn't use condoms._

Your voice is conversational, but I flinch like I've been slapped. I can't see Catherine's face from this angle, but the line of her back goes abruptly and totally stiff. Frozen. Your face is impossible to read, eyes glinting narrowly out of dark bruises, but you don't look down.

Finally, I clear my throat. Twice. My voice still comes out a croak.

_We know._

Well, at least this way you have samples to work with, right? Don't worry, they ran all the tests.

You sound almost challenging. Like you want to see how we're going to react. Catherine shudders a little and puts out a hand to touch your knee.

You control your recoil almost instantly, but I know she sees it. She withdraws her hand.

_I'm so sorry._

You shrug.

_Whatever. I'm not dead yet. You need anything else?_

Dakota said something about a boyfriend.

Oh. So now we're bringing my sex life into this? That's classic.

She didn't mean it like that, Greg.

A long silence, then you look down at your lap. Your shoulders slump. You're so skinny--wiry, knotted muscle in your arms, concave belly, the bumps of your spine prominent enough to count. Above the waistband of your pajama pants, I can see the top half of the bruise that Sara photographed earlier, fading to an ugly green-yellow color. Dennis Bierda isn't a very big guy and that handprint is huge, so it probably didn't come from him.

Your ribcage expands, straining against mottled skin, and then you blow out a long breath through your nose.

_You're right. I'm sorry._

Catherine makes an abortive motion, like she's going to touch you but thinks better of it. Your eyes follow her hand as it stops in midair and withdraws to rest awkwardly on her knee.

_Greg, I know this isn't any of our business._

Hey, it's all part of the case, right?

God, your tone hurts. I shove my hands into my pockets, bandages rough against my thighs even through cloth.

_We just need to know if there's a chance he might know anything. Just to talk to him. I understand that you're not together anymore, but if you have any contact information--_

We broke up a year and a half ago. I haven't even talked to him in months. I doubt he knows anything. Those guys didn't even really start hassling me until a few months ago.

Okay. That's fine.

Catherine makes a note on her pad, but I'm pretty sure it's just to avoid looking you in the face. I pull my hands out of my pockets, flex them experimentally.

_You said these guys ran in a group. Were they all involved in the incident at the diner?_

Dennis was. Not that other guy. There was another one, a younger guy. I haven't seen him around there that much, but he was the one who started it.

Can you describe him for us?

Tall. Dark hair, high cheekbones, beard. Had a mouth on him, too.

I look at the floor. I shouldn't say it, but--

_Seriously, man, why didn't you tell anybody this was going on?_

I told you, it wasn't a big deal. He called me a faggot, I told him to kiss my ass, he shoved me, I shoved him, old Gianni broke it up and we went our separate ways. I didn't want to make a big issue out of it, okay?

Okay, man. It's just that if--

I clamp my mouth shut before I can get into 'what-if's'. If I know you at all--and I like to think I do--you're second-guessing yourself enough without me adding to it.

There's a long, awkward silence, which is broken--mercifully--by the shrill ringing of the phone on your bedside table. You start, stare at it for several seconds before answering.

_Sanders._

You've obviously been hanging around Grissom too long. I never used to answer my phone like that either, but after a while it becomes an ingrained habit.

_Mom, it's like two-thirty in the morning, what are you--shit. When did she leave?_

Catherine twists in her seat to glance back at me, face inquisitive like I'm going to know any more than she does. I shrug.

You're still talking.

_No, that's okay. Seriously--look, you're not going to be able to find somebody on such short notice. I get out tomorrow, day after at the latest. I have plenty of people here to hover around my bedside until then. I'll be fine._

A long pause.

_I'm thirty-one years old, Mom, I don't need a babysitter--you know what, fine. Nick can do it, okay?_

I can do what?

_You remember him, you met him at the hospital. He called you a cab--right. Yeah, the nice young man._

You glance up at me, winding the cord absently around your wrist. I raise my eyebrows and you look down again.

_I'm going to be fine. Really. Just--get some sleep, okay? You have a flight to catch. Yeah, I love you too. 'Bye._

The phone cord gets tangled up in your fingers when you try to hang up, and you slam the phone into the cradle with more force than is probably really necessary.

Catherine and I wait while you disentangle yourself, glare at the phone, and look back up at us.

_Something happen?_

Papa Olaf.

You sound disgusted rather than upset, so I'm guessing your mom wasn't calling to tell you that he dropped dead unexpectedly.

_He okay?_

He's fine. His live-in nurse, on the other hand, is having a family emergency. Those seem to be going around.

That's not funny.

Yeah, well my mom's got to head out early. She seems to think I can't get myself from the hospital to my apartment without help, so I volunteered you. You don't have to do it.

Nah. I mean, that's okay. I'll give you a lift. If you want me to.

You look me up and down, appraisingly, and I try not to squirm. Finally, you nod.

_Thanks. I appreciate it._

No problem.

Cool. We done here? I have enough codeine in my system to knock out a small elephant, and I'd really like to get some sleep before my mom stops in.

You're looking at Catherine, but I answer.

_Yeah. We're done here. Feel better, okay?_

Sure, you know me. I'm gonna be fine.

I'm not so sure about that, but I manage a weak grin anyway.

* * *

Catherine drives back to the labs. I count five times that she glances over at me, starts to say something, then shakes her head and looks back at the road. After a while, I put my head back against the seat and close my eyes. The rumble of the engine lulls me into a dull haze that isn't quite sleep but isn't all that far away from it.

* * *

The labs are quiet when we get back, but as we pass the visitor's desk, a young woman rises to her feet.

_Excuse me, but are you working on the Greg Sanders case?_

I'm already answering as I turn, the words falling out of my mouth by rote.

_I'm sorry, miss, but we can't discuss any ongoing investigations with--_

My voice trails away. Her hair is skinned back in an unflattering ponytail, and there's an awful bruise blackening the left side of her face. She's made some effort at dressing up, but her Wal-Mart sweater fits badly and hangs loose from her bony shoulders. She's jittery, like she's running on caffeine and adrenaline and not much else. It's Emma Doyle.

Her eyes flicker back and forth before finally settling on me.

_Well, if you're not working on it, find somebody who is. I'm here to turn myself in._


	11. Confessions, Part 2

I don't know the last time I've seen Brass being this nice to a suspect. If Emma Doyle is a suspect. She's been pretty adamant that she did _something_ wrong, but she's not too clear on exactly what. Catherine props her shoulder against the wall, watching through the one-way glass as Brass wraps a ziplock bag of ice in a towel and hands it to the girl. She presses it against the bruise on her cheek, winces, pulls it away.

_Better leave that on. It should take some of the swelling down. Why don't you tell me what you're doing here, Emma?_

Like I told those other guys, I'm here to turn myself in.

Yes, we got that. What for?

That kid you found. Greg. Um, Greg Sanders.

Sara comes in the room behind us, glares at Catherine, glances at me, then peers through the glass at Brass and Emma.

_What's her story?_

Didn't Grissom give you another case to work on?

I'm waiting on my results from Tox.

Catherine purses her lips thoughtfully, then shrugs.

_She might know something about what happened to Greg. Nick here thinks that she was involved, and we know she was at the factory, but she's been covering up for her boyfriend._

So he beats her face in. That's some gratitude.

We don't know for sure that--

Sara cuts her off with an abrupt gesture.

_Trust me. It was him. Why else would she be here now?_

Well, I guess we'll see.

We turn back to the window. Brass is setting up his tape recorder and notepad while Emma squirms in her chair. She's moving restlessly, shifting, twitchy. I don't think she's on anything, but I don't have any good reason for that--she just doesn't strike me as a tweaker.

Brass clears his throat and she jumps, looks up at him. Her face is pinched and frightened, and he holds his hands up pacifically.

_Just so we're clear, you've waived your right to an attorney, is that right?_

Yeah. Whatever. Look, I know I'm going to jail. I don't care. I don't care. I just--

She stops and draws in a long, shuddering breath like she's just remembered that she needs to breathe.

_Okay. That's okay. Why don't you just start from the beginning?_

I lied, okay? When I was in here before. I said I didn't know anything about what happened, but I lied. I was scared.

Who were you scared of?

My boyfriend. Andy. Andy Small. Fucking Small is right, the bastard--

So your boyfriend was involved.

Yes. No. Look, okay it was--God. It was so messed up.

Hey, relax. We're just talking here, okay? Take a deep breath.

She does, gulping convulsively.

_Okay, it was that little fucker. Benny._

I thought your boyfriend's name was Andy.

Yeah. Benny's his kid brother. Little punk, you know? Thinks he's all that. He doesn't have a job, he sleeps on his buddies' floors and shit, steals my money out of my wallet when he comes over.

Okay.

Sara drifts closer to me. I don't turn around, but I can smell her vanilla lotion and the sharp tang of the latex gloves she was wearing earlier. She must have come here without even washing her hands. When she speaks, her voice is low.

_How was he?_

I shrug. I can see her reflection in the glass, but it's too blurred to make out her expression and I don't look over.

_He wasn't too happy to see us._

Is he going to be okay?

Physically, yeah.

It could be worse. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. It could be worse. You could easily be dead, but you're not. You're going to be fine. You're tough. You'll survive.

In the glass, I can see Sara nodding her head. Likely she's thinking about the same things I am, but it doesn't do any good to talk about it, and I want to see what Emma has to say.

She raps her fingers on the table nervously. The harsh lighting washes her out, makes her look older than she really is. She's breathing harshly through her nose, like she just got through running a marathon. Brass makes a 'go-ahead' motion with his hands.

_Okay, so tell me about Benny._

She takes another deep breath, and then the words are just tumbling out of her. Like now that she's started talking she doesn't know how to stop.

_This little fucking punk showed up last Saturday, wanted to borrow Andy's van, so Andy gives him the keys, just like it's nothing, and Benny disappears for like two days. And then he comes back--this was, what? Monday night?--anyway, he comes back and he's all freaking out, talking about how he fucked up, you know, but he wouldn't say what happened._

Right.

So Andy goes out there and the next thing I know he's dragging me out to the van. I didn't even see that kid in the back--he just shoved me in the driver's side and told me to drive. Didn't even say where. When I got to the factory he told me to stop, and I did. We went around the back of the van and there's this--this kid. It was so fucked up, you know?

Yeah. I know.

Like, he was tied up--they had him tied up, and he wasn't even moving. I thought he was dead at first. Andy grabbed him and kind of hauled him out onto the ground. I remember his head knocked pretty hard against the bumper and he made some kind of noise, and that's when I realized he was alive. There were some clothes in the back too. Andy said we had to get rid of everything, so I grabbed them clothes while he dragged that kid into the building. He was just going to leave him there. Just let it take care of itself, that's what he said.

Beside me, Sara draws in a ragged breath. I glance over. Catherine is still watching the interview with her face set in an impassive mask, but Sara's eyes are wet and her lip wobbles dangerously. I touch the back of her hand and she jerks her head up to look at me.

_Hey._

She bites her lip, closes her eyes for a long moment.

_Sorry. I'm okay._

You sure?

Yeah. It's just--

I know.

And I do. I really do. Hearing about this Andrew guy hauling you out of a van and dumping you out in the industrial wasteland like a sack of garbage--

Well, they'd better not let me get my hands on him, is all.

In the interrogation room, Brass is scribbling down notes in his square handwriting. When he looks up, his deadpan is perfect, but I'm pretty sure he's not any happier to be hearing this than we are.

_So you called the police._

Soon as I got home. That's how I got the shiner.

Why didn't you tell us any of this the first time you came down here?

I was scared, okay? I didn't want to go to jail. And Andy--he gets drinking and he gets nasty. I was afraid of him. Should have just told the truth the first time around. He kicked my ass when I got home.

Her mouth twists bitterly, and she shifts her grip on the ice pack.

_I just felt bad, you know? That guy never did nothing to me, and if I know Benny, he didn't have any good reason for going after him. He's just like that. So you go ahead and arrest me if that's what you gotta do, but make sure you find them first._

* * *

Grissom pages me a few hours later. When I stop in his office, he's got his glasses off and the disorganized stack of paperwork littering his desk is even bigger than usual.

_Hey, Gris._

Nick.

You wanted to see me?

You went to talk to Greg.

His voice is neutral. Grissom would be such a pain in the ass to interview, because it's impossible to get a read on him. High-functioning autism, according to Catherine, although I have a suspicion that he does it on purpose.

Either way, though, you never can tell what he's thinking until he decides to share it.

_Yeah. We had a few issues with the case to discuss with him. He's doing okay, by the way._

What?

Greg. He's doing okay. They're sending him home tomorrow or the next day.

I'm glad to hear that.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, then puts his glasses back on and looks me up and down. I shove my hands in my pockets, painfully aware of my bandaged palms, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my right leg won't quite hold my weight. At least my clothes are clean--wrinkled, but clean--and I took a shower before I came in.

I open my mouth, then shut it again. My eyes fall on a newspaper sitting on the corner of Grissom's cluttered desk. The crossword, filled out neatly in pencil. I smile.

_I heard you owe Greg a month of Thai takeout._

Yes. He's already called me to gloat.

He sounds amused, but just when I'm hoping that I've managed to duck a lecture, he puts both hands on his desk and pins me with a stern glare.

_How are you doing, Nick?_

I'm fine.

Are you sure?

No offense, Grissom, but haven't we already had this conversation?

Yes, and you weren't particularly forthcoming then, either.

Fine. He's going to be like that? Fine. I pull my hands out of my pockets and hold them out, displaying the bandages and the tape that's already starting to peel.

_Okay, I'm exhausted, my ankle is sprained, I scraped the hell out of my hands, that bite that Greg gave me hurts worse than bad, and I'm about five seconds away from turning in my service pistol to Brass just so I'm not tempted to go shoot somebody. That better?_

It's such a relief to just say it out loud that in that moment I don't even care if he pulls me off the case.

Being Grissom, though, of course he doesn't do the predictable thing and give me a dressing-down for my attitude. He cocks his head, an odd little half-smile on his face, then nods like he's just had some theory confirmed.

_I appreciate the honesty. Greg's mother is here, she'd like to have a word with you._

I blink.

_What?_

She's waiting by the visitor's desk.

He looks back down at the report in front of him. I stare at him for several seconds, but it's not until I'm turning to leave that he looks up.

_Oh, and Nick?_

Yeah?

Take care of yourself, will you?

I pause with my hand against the doorframe. Fucking Grissom. He really is hopeless.

_Yeah, Gris. I'll do that._

* * *

Your mother looks even more out of place in the lobby of the crime lab than you did on your first day. Man, I still remember that. You were wearing this awful orange Hawaiian shirt, and your hair was spiked straight up, and Warrick thought that you were a witness for the murder case he and Cath were working down on Boulder Highway--

Anyway. She's standing with her hands clasped behind her back, looking at the bulletin board with a focused expression on her face, like she actually gives a damn about the tenth annual PD barbeque and baseball game. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder. It contrasts oddly with her neat, upper-middle-class housewife outfit of pressed jeans and cardigan sweater. How someone like this could have ended up with a kid like you is beyond me.

_Mrs. Sanders?_

She spins on her heel, mouth open and startled and for a moment she looks so much like you that I flinch. Then she straightens, smooths back the curls of light brown hair that are escaping from her French braid.

_Mr. Stokes._

Please. Nick.

Nick.

She hesitates, like she's trying out the taste of my name in her mouth, and that's another thing I remember from the first time I met you. The tilted chin, the wry, curling smile. You don't just get your looks from her; the mannerisms are the same, too. I don't know why I didn't notice sooner.

_You wanted to see me?_

Yes. I, um. I have a key for Greg's apartment. I got him some clothes. For when he gets out.

She shrugs the backpack off her shoulder and holds it out. I cross the room and take it from her. It's yours, I'm sure. Even if it weren't for the Nine Inch Nails patch safety-pinned to the pocket, your mother doesn't really seem like the backpack type.

_Thank you. I'm sure Greg will appreciate that._

Take care of him, will you?

Of course, ma'am.

As much as you'll let me. Which probably won't be much, but I'm not going to say that. She snorts. It's such a cynical sound that I glance up again.

_Good luck with that. Knowing my boy--_

Mrs. Sanders--

You know, he got caught in the middle of an explosion a few years ago. Right here at the labs. Did you know that?

Yes, ma'am.

I remember getting back from my shift to fire trucks and ambulances and half of the lab team standing in the parking lot with scrapes and bruises and stunned expressions. It was Archie who finally took me aside and told me what happened. He said your back looked like burnt hamburger. I don't know about that, because it was months before you'd take your shirt off in the locker room, but I know how the scars look, and I know what the labs looked like afterward.

_He didn't say anything to me. I read about it in the papers. And when I called him, you know what he said? He told me that he was nowhere near the explosion. That it was just minor, scrapes and bruises. That they just sent him into the hospital to get checked up for insurance reasons._

And suddenly I want to laugh. It's too easy to picture you in the hospital, high as a kite on morphine and laying on your side with half the skin burned off your back, telling your mom over the phone that it's really not a big deal, don't worry, just a few bumps and bruises, see you at Christmas.

_I'm sure he just didn't want to worry you._

She sighs. It's a small, sad noise, and it makes me like her more than I have since she rushed into the hospital the night we found you.

_He never wants to worry me. I guess it hasn't always been easy for him. You're not going to tell me what happened, are you?_

I could give her more non-answers, but I'm too tired to be politic, and she deserves at least a little bit of the truth.

_No, ma'am. It's not my place to say._

Okay.

She puts a hand out to touch my shoulder. Her fingers are small and warm and she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach.

_Just take care of him, will you? Take care of my boy._

And before I can answer, she's walking out the front door, leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with your backpack dangling from my hand.


	12. Call

I run into Warrick out in the parking lot as I'm coming back from the fast-food joint around the corner. There's day-glow orange paint splattered all over his face, his hair, and his shirt. He catches me looking and shakes his head.

_Don't ask._

He was working with Grissom on some kind of experiment, so he's right; I probably don't want to know.

_That's quite the fashion statement you're making there._

He grimaces, wipes at his t-shirt, and gives up when he only succeeds in smearing the paint around.

_It's the Greg Sanders Spring Line. He'd probably pay money for a shirt like this._

Yeah, probably.

You would, too. You don't dress like that at the labs anymore, but I've seen you often enough off-shift to know that your abominable taste in t-shirts hasn't changed much over the years.

_How, uh, how is Sanders doing, anyway? I'm sorry I couldn't come with you guys, but..._

No, it's cool. He's doing alright, I guess. He's up and talking, anyway.

Good. That's good.

Warrick hesitates, crossing his arms, then un-crossing them awkwardly.

_Did you know about him?_

What about him?

Stalling for time, because of course I know exactly what he's talking about.

_About--you know. That he's into guys._

I don't see how that's relevant.

It's not relevant. I was just surprised. Could complicate things.

It doesn't matter.

To a jury it might.

I slam my truck door shut hard enough that the force of the impact shudders up my arm.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

Doesn't mean anything, man. It's all just spin. But you know how the defense is going to paint it.

What, because he's gay that means he asked to be raped?

Warrick flinches, and I realize that's the first time I've said that word out loud. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

_You know I don't think that, so why don't you calm the hell down and think for a minute?_

Warrick's maybe the only person in the world who could get away with talking to me like this now. He's not dumb enough to get into this just for the sake of conversation, either, and now he's watching me with a considering look in his green eyes, like he's waiting to see whether or not I'm going to wise up and start thinking this through. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, let it out.

_Okay, I'll bite. Where are you going with this?_

He crosses his arms again, props his hip against the trunk of his black Mustang, all smooth, cocky confidence. He uses that attitude to put witnesses at ease, make them think that he's just another hood-rat turned cop and not a 4.0 honor scholar from UNLV. The man is scary-smart. It's usually worth listening to him, even when he pisses me off.

_I'm just saying that we need to keep this low-profile. It's not relevant to the case, the defense has no reason to find out about it._

Greg's not going to like that.

You won't, either. You've got a spiteful streak, and you've been hurt bad--hurt and scared--and I think you're going to come into this swinging. I could be wrong, I guess. But wounded animals bite, and working in law enforcement as long as I have, I've learned that applies just as well to people as it does to dogs.

_He doesn't have to like it. Look, I'm not saying we lie about it. All they need to know is that he got into an altercation with those psychos, and forensics will provide enough evidence to hang them. No need to let it get messy._

It's already a goddamn mess.

Messier, then.

I'm going to answer him, but both our pagers go off at the same time. It's Brass.

They picked up Andrew Small buying cigarettes and gas at the corner store three blocks from his house. He's in Interrogation Room One.

* * *

No ice pack this time. No smiles. Brass looks like a pissed-off bulldog, and Small is shifting nervously in his seat under the force of that cold glare. He's a tall man, rawboned and dark-haired with nicotine-stained teeth. I remember you describing the guy you fought with at the diner. Tall, dark-haired, bearded, and I wonder how much of a family resemblance there is between Andrew Small and his younger brother Benjamin.

_Look, man, I don't know why I'm here._

Well, for starters, your girlfriend--excuse me, your ex_-girlfriend--is filing assault charges against you. Looks like you gave her one hell of a shiner._

Listen, that bitch should never--

That was a bad decision, Andy--can I call you Andy? Because, see, she kept her mouth shut the first time she came down here and if you hadn't seen fit to pop her one, I don't think she would have come back tonight to turn herself in.

What?

Oh, yeah. And she had a whole lot to say about you, your brother, and your brother's merry little gang.

You leave my brother out of this.

Too late. What are you protecting that scumbag for, anyway?

He's my brother, you asshole.

Oh, now I'm the asshole.

Look, Benny's a good kid, he just got--

--mixed up with the wrong crowd, is that right?

That's right.

Andrew, 'he just got mixed up with the wrong crowd' is an excuse for smoking pot and stealing cars. It is not an excuse for kidnapping, gang rape, and attempted murder.

Benny wouldn't do that.

Oh, but Benny did do that, and you know it. You're not a very good criminal, Andy. When you dumped Greg Sanders in that factory and left him to die, you left his clothes right there with him. We got all sorts of very smart people analyzing the trace on those clothes as we speak. We already know that two of the donors are related. He scratched you, didn't he?

Look, I don't have to sit here and listen to this bullshit. I want a lawyer.

That's your right. I just want you to think something over while the public defender is on his way over. With the DNA sample we collected from you, I got enough evidence to hang you so high your feet won't ever touch the ground. And we will find your brother, sooner or later. He's going down. The only question is whether or not you're going to go down with him.

Brass stands, slaps the table in front of him with the flat of his hand.

_Think about it._

* * *

_You think he'll talk?_

Brass scowls at Small's retreating back as the two uniformed officers lead him toward the holding cell. When he speaks, there's something ominous in his voice.

_He'll talk._

If I wasn't itching to strangle Small myself, I might almost feel sorry for him.

* * *

I've been running on caffeine for most of the shift and it starts wearing off about four hours after I was supposed to clock out. This time it's Catherine who orders me to go home and get some sleep. I want to argue, but when she finds me I've been sitting at my desk and staring blankly at a stack of evidence reports for twenty minutes, so I have to concede her point.

I manage not to total my truck in the mile and a half drive from the labs to my apartment, but it's a closer thing than I want to admit. I fall onto the bed fully dressed for the second time this week and drop into sleep so fast that it's more like getting knocked unconscious.

The phone wakes me up, shrilling in my ear, and I'm still blinking and groggy, trying to orient myself, when the answering machine picks up.

_Hey, Nick. Um. I told my mom I'd call you when they let me out. So I'm calling you. They're letting me out. Consider yourself called._

I reach for the phone, but by the time I fumble it off the cradle, there's nothing but dial tone. I drop my head back against the pillow and swear.

Then I roll out of bed, shake my head to clear out the cobwebs, and pull on my shoes.


	13. Response

I'm half-expecting you to be gone by the time I get to the hospital, but when I poke my head in the room you're still there, laying on top of the covers in those stupid blue scrubs with your hands resting on your chest, staring up at the ceiling. The strange, distant expression you're wearing would look more at home on Grissom's face than it does on yours.

I want to back out of the room, but I guess I must have made some kind of noise because you roll your head over to look at me. Your face is slack and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus. The painkillers. I hope.

_Hey, Nick._

Hey, man. I'm here to spring you.

I step the rest of the way into the room and let the door swing shut behind me. You blink and push yourself up until you're sitting against the wall, bare toes digging into the cheap hospital blankets. I hope your mother thought to put a pair of shoes in that bag.

_Hope I didn't wake you up._

You sound almost right, but there's no animation in your voice. All the shades of meaning that should be there--teasing, innuendo, impatience--are absent.

_Nah, man. It's cool._

I was going to catch a cab but my keys--my clothes--

They're in evidence. Your mom picked some stuff up from your place. And I have your spare keys.

Trying hard to keep my voice even as you close your eyes, briefly, but you take the backpack I hand you without a word. For several moments you don't move, and I'm wondering if I should offer to give you a hand when you finally slide out of bed, clutching the bag to your chest like a life preserver, and shuffle into the bathroom.

I sit down on the bed and stare at my hands until the door opens.

You look more normal like this, in jeans and a t-shirt printed with the name of a band I've never heard of, but your face is still guarded and wary. You sling the empty bag over your shoulder, moving stiffly.

_Let's go._

I hesitate.

_The nurse is bringing a wheelchair up._

Right.

You sink onto the bed next to me, hands on your knees.

_I hate hospitals._

I know what you mean.

For me, it's the smell, the antiseptic smell of strong cleaners that isn't quite enough to hide the stink of sickness and death. It reminds me of Doc Robbins' office. You've spent even more time in the hospital over the past few years than I have, and part of me wants to make some kind of small talk about it. And really, that's a pretty sad commentary all on its own, because I never had any trouble talking to you but now I don't know what to say.

You're not talking either, and I don't want to open my mouth for fear of what might come spilling out of it. I shift my weight, look around the room. I was right about the plants. Most of them are looking a little wilted, and I'm betting they'd be entirely dead if the nurses' aids didn't come in and water them. The Marilyn Manson doll that Sara gave you is sitting on your nightstand. It's kind of creepy-looking and definitely hokey--right up your alley.

_Sara came in to see me yesterday._

I glance up. You're looking at the doll, too.

_Yeah. She told me._

I snapped at her. I should apologize.

She'll get over it.

Still. I feel bad. It's just--

You lift your left hand, make a vague gesture. The rope-burn on your wrist looks raw and painful.

_I don't know. I don't know what to say to her._

You don't need to say anything, man.

Stop trying to make me feel better.

Your tone is sharp. I drop my head and nod.

_Sorry._

You know, I've heard enough apologies over the past couple of days to last me for a month.

Sor--

I bite back the rest of the word. You snort, and when I look up your face has lost a little of that frightening stiffness.

_I'm kind of being an asshole, aren't I?_

I shrug, make my voice light. I'm not a very good actor, but I have to at least try, because you're not going to take sympathy. Not now.

_You've had a rough week._

Yeah.

For a minute I think you're going to say something else, but then the nurse comes in with a wheelchair. It's the woman from a few days ago, the one who thought we were together. She gives me a little wink over the top of your head as she helps you fold your lanky frame into the chair, and I look away.

_I'll let your friend wheel you out to the car, okay?_

Sure.

Anything you want to take with you?

She's looking around the room at all the flowers and cards, the gift baskets and sagging helium balloons. It looks like the aftermath of a New Year's Eve party in here, minus the noisemakers. Normally I'd say that you fill that role just fine, but your voice is quiet when you speak.

_Just that doll._

Of course, sweetheart.

I can tell that she doesn't understand, but she retrieves the doll and sets it in your lap, where it immediately starts listing to the side. I have to swallow a completely inappropriate bubble of laughter at the picture you make.

Then you twist a little to look up at me, mouth slanting into a crooked little grin, and I can see the chip in your bottom front tooth. Dennis Bierda was wearing rings when he was arrested, big, heavy silver rings. Those things are as good as brass knuckles for messing up a person's face.

Suddenly, I'm not having any trouble suppressing laughter anymore.

* * *

We're quiet on the ride over. I put the radio on. I know you don't like my country and I tell you to put on whatever you want, but after spinning through the stations three or four times, you leave it on 95.5 KWNR, and you stare out the window while Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss croon 'Whiskey Lullaby'. The telephone wires look like thick ropes of spiderweb strung from post to post, and I always forget how tawdry Vegas looks in the light of day.

_I'm going to have to get a new car, I guess._

Your voice is neutral, and I can't tell whether or not you expect a response.

_Damages to your car should be easy to repair. Pretty much just the windows._

Where your foot and head went through. You don't look over at me as you shake your head.

_No. I never want to see that fucking thing again._

You love that car. Loved that car. I remember you showing it off in the parking lot when you first bought it. It was the first new car you'd ever bought, and I remember teasing you about how tiny it was, and you tilted your head and blinked at me and said something in an innocent tone about big trucks and male compensation. And I socked you on the shoulder and Warrick laughed when you started reciting auto stats in a rapid-patter that made you sound like an auctioneer.

_I'm sure the insurance will pay out._

You shrug.

_Doesn't matter. I make enough. Can you do me a favor?_

Sure, man. Whatever you want.

Can you stop by a pharmacy? I have a couple of prescriptions to fill.

Vicodin and antibiotics, most likely. I pull into the least crowded Walgreen's I can find. I'm going to offer to go pick them up by myself, but you're already opening the door before I can finish the sentence.

Inside, it's cool and brightly lit. You hunch your shoulders like the sliding doors are going to attack you and head straight toward the back, head down, walking so fast that I almost have to jog to keep up. The last time I was in a store with you--picking up beer, I think, for an Xbox marathon--it took me about twenty minutes to drag you away from the magazine racks, but it doesn't look like that's going to be a problem today.

The lines at the pharmacy counter aren't long and I'm glad, because you're tenser than I've ever seen you. You're working hard to move normally, but it's like watching a marionette, and I know people notice. I can see on their faces that they're wondering what happened, because you look like you got run over by a Mack truck and between the limp and the bandaged hands, I'm not doing much better.

I was going to pick up a carton of ice-cream, something easy to eat with a sore mouth, but by the time the pharmacist hands over the paper bag of medication, you're wound so tight that I'm afraid you might have a panic attack right in the middle of the store if I don't get you out of there.

Back in the truck you close your eyes and grip the sides of your seat with both hands, anchoring yourself. I reach across the center console to pat your shoulder, but drop my hand when you look at it like it might bite you.

_You alright, man?_

Just drive, okay?

Your voice is high and tight. I swallow hard and nod and put the truck in gear.

* * *

Your apartment reminds me of a college dorm. The A/C is turned up enough to keep it cool and dry, but there's still that vague, musty smell that you get in places that haven't been used for a while. There are heavy-metal posters tacked haphazardly to the plaster walls, photos jammed into the doorframes and stuck to the fridge rather than framed.

One of them, held up with a magnet in the shape of a pineapple, catches my eye. In it, you're young and sporting a mohawk, standing on a crowded sidewalk with another young man. You're both wearing fishnets and leather, outfits that wouldn't be out of place at some of the freakier Vegas clubs, but you're grinning like kids on Halloween night.

You come up behind me, stop a few feet back.

_Jeremy Heller. He got into med school. We were celebrating._

I turn. With your shoulders hunched and your shaggy hair hanging into your eyes, you hardly look like the same person as the kid in the picture. I wish I could say that it's just the bruises, but it isn't, and the contrast hurts me.

I can tell that you're expecting me to ask about him, but I don't. I don't need to. Everything I need to know is in the picture, in the casual way his hand is resting on your hip, the tilt of your body against his. He's an inch or so shorter than you, and I'm guessing he's probably good-looking under the heavy eye makeup.

_Looks like one hell of a party._

You try to smile, then stop as the stitches in your lip pull.

_Revenant. Goth club. That was really more Jeremy's scene than mine, but it was a good time._

What's he do now?

He's a pediatrician. He lives up by San Diego with his boyfriend. They're talking about adopting a little girl. It's all very Norman Rockwell.

You sound bitter. I look down as you dig the prescription bottles out of the bag and down four or five pills in quick succession without even reading the labels.

_I'm going to bed._

You, uh--you want me to leave?

You kick your shoes off on your way toward the bedroom and don't look back.

_You can stay. If you want._

It's not exactly an invitation, but at least you're not kicking me out. The bedroom door closes dully behind you and I bend down to untie my boots. I set them down neatly next to the pile of shoes in the entry hall, shrug out of my jacket and set that down too.

Your couch is a little short for me to stretch out on, but it's not too bad. I wedge a cushion under my head and listen to your shuffling footsteps on the other side of the wall as you move around.

The springs on your bed creak, and then there's silence. You don't snore, and I'm not sure whether or not you're actually sleeping at all, but it's not like I can go in there and check. Just letting me stay at all was way more of a concession than I was expecting from you and I'm not going to push my luck. Not now.

You don't have blackout curtains in your living room, but the shades keep out most of the light and I'm so tired that it probably wouldn't matter anyway. I turn my head in toward the couch, the scratchy synthetic fiber rough against my face, and let myself slide into sleep.

Three hours later, I wake up to the sound of screaming.


	14. Cigarettes and Sleep

I'm awake and reaching for a gun before I even realize where I am, and that's got to be some kind of symptom of PTSD.

No gun. No crime scene. No bad guys. I'm on the couch in your apartment and on the other side of the wall you're screaming--not yelling, but _screaming_, the kind of sound that people make when they're being tortured, the kind of scream that'll make your throat so sore that just breathing feels like being burned alive.

Not that I would know.

The couch is narrower than I think and I fall on all fours on your living room floor in my haste to stand up. I push myself to my feet and take the five stumbling steps to your bedroom door and God, it seems like an eternity.

It's dark in here, but the open door lets in enough light from the living room for me to see you thrashing in your bed, eyes closed, face contorted.

_Greg. Greg, come on, man, wake up. It's not real._

I don't remember crossing the room, but I find myself sitting on the side of your bed, talking in a low, soothing voice that sounds way too calm to belong to me. I'm not dumb enough to try to touch you, but your flailing leg catches my hip and it's like that contact is a catalyst. You don't wake up, but your fist comes up and before I can even think about blocking, you land two painfully accurate blows on my ribcage, bam, bam, one after another, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. You're a lot stronger than I thought.

The impact must have jarred you awake, because when I get my breath back you're staring at me, eyes hollow and remorseful.

_Nick?_

Yeah. I'm here.

Did I hit you?

Don't worry about it.

My voice is still a fragile gasp, and I'm going to have bruises. I don't bruise easily. Maybe I was wrong about those kickboxing lessons, because even asleep and panicked you can land one hell of a punch.

At least it wasn't the hand that you broke, because the last thing I want to do right now is drive you back to the hospital so they can re-set your fingers. I can see the outline of your profile as you look away, but the dark obscures your features.

_I'm sorry._

Seriously, don't worry about it. I'm pretty durable.

You're crying. God, you're crying, and I can tell that you don't want me to notice because when you speak your voice is deliberately even.

_Yeah, but still. Here you are being a nice guy, and I have to go and deck you._

It's okay, man.

I touch your shoulder, and this time you don't flinch away. You tilt your head to the side, trapping my hand between your shoulder and your wet cheek. Two long, slow breaths, like you're trying to keep the tears out of your voice. You almost succeed.

_Thanks for waking me up._

No problem. You want a glass of water or something?

Cigarettes. On the nightstand.

So there are. My fingers feel clumsy and too thick as I fumble the pack open and pull out a cigarette. I didn't know you smoked, and in this light I can't even tell what brand they are. There's a lighter there too, and I hand both to you.

_These'll kill you, you know._

Yeah, well, I'm not dead yet.

It takes you a few tries to flick the lighter, and I'm about to offer to do it for you when you finally get it, face eerily illuminated for a second in the small flame. Then you inhale. The crackling sound of burning paper seems too loud, and the smell of tobacco fills the room. Menthol, I think, but it's hard to be sure. You exhale on a sigh and lay back against the pillows.

_I don't smoke that much, anyway._

Still not good for you.

I know.

Normally, I'd give you a lecture about it, tell you to go check out the autopsy on a smoker sometime, maybe tease about your marathon speed to prick your pride, but I don't. I can't. I just sit there and watch you smoke, and I don't complain about the fog that stings my eyes and throat.

There's an ashtray on the nightstand. I didn't see it, but you flick your ashes at it unerringly without even looking. You smoke in bed regularly. And that's a really stupid habit--I've processed more than one house fire that started like this--but I don't hassle you about that, either.

You crush the butt out and bring both hands up to your face. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light, and the white flash of your splinted fingers seems to sear across my field of vision. I blink hard.

When you speak, you sound calmer.

_Seriously, thanks for doing this._

You'd do the same for me.

I'm not actually sure you would, but that's not what this is about. You nod, though, without lifting your head.

_Yeah. Can you--_

It sounds like the beginning of a request, but you're quiet for several minutes.

_What is it?_

Can you stay?

I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Greggo.

I promise I won't punch you again.

That's not what I'm worried about, but it's not like I can explain. I open my mouth, close it, sigh. And I must be taking too long to answer, because when you speak again your voice is flat and cool.

_Never mind. Stupid idea._

No. It's okay. I'll stay.

I wasn't planning on saying that. I was planning on getting you a glass of water and going back to lay down on your too-short couch, but now that the words are out, I can't just take them back.

I can tell that you're watching me, and I don't know whether or not I want to see what's in your expression.

It's a moot point, though, because you don't turn on the light as I get up to shut the door, and now the room is totally dark and the only way I can locate you is by the sound of the mattress squeaking as you move over. I bump my shin into the side of the bed and sit down, uneasily. This is all so fucked up.

My hand is resting next to your face and I can feel your breath warm against my skin. The temptation to touch is almost overwhelming.

_Lay down, would you?_

What?

What, you sleep sitting up?

No, it's just--I just--

I shut my mouth on the rest of my stuttering excuses. It's damn certain I won't say the right thing anyway.

It feels almost unbearably awkward to swing my legs over onto the mattress and stretch out. The sheets are expensive, soft and heavy, and there are five or six feather pillows scattered across the top of the bed, not counting the ones you're laying on. I choose one, shove it under my head, and hold still as you shift, getting comfortable.

Finally, slowly, I turn on my side, facing you. Your bed is king-sized, plenty big enough for two grown men to stretch out on, and I let you pick the logistics of it; close enough for comfort, not close enough to be a threat.

You curl into a ball with the sheets wrapped around you--the comforter is kicked to the bottom of the mattress--and let your hand fall into the foot-and-a-half of space between us. For a while neither of us says anything, and I'm starting to think that you've dropped off to sleep when you clear your throat softly.

_Nick? You still awake?_

Yeah.

Thank you. For staying, I mean.

Your voice is small and quiet. And you're always so controlled, so ready to deflect any attempt at seriousness with a joke or a snide comment that it stings, unexpectedly, to hear you like this.

_You're welcome._

I feel like I should say something else but I can't come up with anything that doesn't sound painfully asinine even inside my own head, so I keep quiet.

After a while, your breathing deepens, body relaxing into the mattress as the habitual tension drains out of you.

I should sleep, too, but for a long time I just stare at the tousled crown of your head, trying to swallow the lump that hangs, hot and bitter, in the back of my throat.

I've wanted you for so long, but not like this.

* * *

My internal clock wakes me up around six. You're still sleeping, but I have a lot of practice sneaking out of strange beds, and I don't wake you up sliding out from under the covers and creeping out of the room.

The sun hangs low over the horizon, deep-orange rays staining the kitchen floor as I raid your fridge to make a sandwich. I have a change of clothes in the truck, but I'm not going to have time to go home before my shift.

When I shut the refrigerator door, you're standing there like a lanky, tousle-haired ghost in a t-shirt and sweatpants. I didn't even hear you come in.

_Heading in for work, dear?_

I lean back against the counter, clutching a turkey sandwich in one hand. You're in your pajamas and I'm fully dressed, but something about your level stare makes me feel uncomfortably exposed.

_I'm on shift tonight. But if you want me to stay, I--_

You roll your eyes.

_I told you, I don't need a babysitter. Although if you wanted to stop by for Thai takeout after shift, that's cool._

You cock your head, shrug like you don't really care one way or another. Here in your kitchen--which is unexpectedly clean, although I suspect that's because you never actually cook in it--your defenses are up and there's no sign of last night's vulnerability.

I hate Thai food. But that's not really the point here, so I nod, mimicking your casual attitude, and take a bite of my sandwich.

_Yeah, you know, maybe I will._

* * *

I run two red lights on my way in and it's still about ten minutes after the beginning of the shift when I rush into Grissom's office.

_Sorry, sorry, got held up--_

That's alright, Nick. Sit down.

He points at the chair opposite his desk. I sit.

_What is it?_

You're looking rushed. Catch your breath.

I narrow my eyes at him.

_You're stalling, Grissom. What is it?_

Can't put anything past you.

Well, you made me a Level Three for a reason.

He nods, smiling a little, but I can tell his heart's not in it.

_I just want to make sure that you're not going to do anything rash._

Why would I do anything rash?

Andrew Small--

I tense at the name. Anyone else would probably miss it, but not Grissom. He clears his throat sternly, and I force myself to relax.

_Andrew Small's lawyer contacted us to make a plea bargain. He gave us the address where Benjamin Small and Joseph Duquette are staying. Brass is en route with them now._

Okay.

I can hear my voice, and it sounds normal, but everything else seems distant, as if the entire world just took a step back. And I'm glad I'm sitting down now, because I don't know if I want to pass out or hit something.

We found them. I should be happy. But all I can think about is you, panicking in the grip of nightmares, and I know it's going to be a struggle--a real struggle--not to kill the man who started this.


	15. Bruises and Scars

I'm standing by the windows, watching the low, hot wind blow dust devils across the empty parking lot, when the determined sound of heels clicking on hard tile alerts me to Catherine's approach. I turn.

_Hey, Catherine._

Hey. How're you doing?

I shrug.

_Been better._

Yeah. What are you doing here?

Brass is processing our other two perps. Didn't Grissom tell you?

He did, yeah. Are you going to observe the interview?

They need a DNA sample from Small.

Are you sure that's a good idea?

Catherine's polite way of asking whether or not I'm planning to kill the guy the minute I'm in the same room as him. If I'm honest, I don't even know myself. I don't answer, and after a few minutes she comes to stand next to me at the window. The sun is a glowing sliver of red above the dark hills, spreading long shadows across the valley. Catherine shifts her weight a little. She smells like leather and expensive perfume.

_So, did you follow through?_

What?

With Greg. I saw his mother here yesterday; she said she asked him to call you. Did he?

Yeah. I gave him a ride home.

And?

He's--

I trail off. It feels like betraying some kind of unspoken trust to tell her about your pinched wariness in the pharmacy, your bitter commentary on that ex of yours, your nightmare. But I'm not going to lie and say that you're okay.

Catherine understands, I guess, well enough that she doesn't push the subject. She links her hands behind her back, staring at the window, pale, stern profile framed by waves of perfectly styled blonde hair.

_He asked me to come back over after shift._

I'm not really looking for advice--I only told her that to break the silence before it started to get too uncomfortable, but she nods, thoughtfully, and smiles.

_That's good. I can't think of anyone better to be there for him._

Well, thanks, Catherine.

Trying to smile and probably failing, but she smiles back.

_I'm serious, Nicky. If anyone knows what he's going through, it's you. I really think you could help him work past this, if he'll let you._

It's a moment--a long, awkward moment--before I realize that she's not referring to twenty-four hours spent screaming in a Plexiglass box underground. Of course not. We've never really talked about what I told her, about Betsy Tanner, pretty, popular Betsy with her coconut-scented tanning oil and her long, hot-pink acrylic fingernails. Like claws, I remember thinking. I found the marks of them sunk into my right arm and scraped into my thighs after my mother sent her home. The scars on my arm where she held me against the couch were obliterated by a truly spectacular bike accident two years later, but the ones on my inner thighs are still there, if you know where to look. Not many people have noticed them, and they're easy to explain away. I usually make it a funny story.

I close my eyes briefly. When I open them again, Catherine's watching me, still smiling tentatively. She doesn't get it. And this isn't something I really want to admit to, but I don't have any wisdom to offer in this department.

_Catherine--I never got past it. I just learned to stop thinking about it. It's been almost thirty years and sometimes it still makes me crazy._

She winces. I didn't tell her that before, although at the time I guess I thought it was kind of obvious. Her voice is subdued when she answers.

_Still, you could talk to him--_

He's going through enough right now. He doesn't need to deal with my issues on top of everything else.

And that's another thing I usually won't say. I don't like to think of myself as having issues. Happy, healthy, well-adjusted Nick Stokes; I'm usually better at faking it, but the past week's been a bitch.

Catherine draws in a quick breath, mouth open, looking up at me with big, sad eyes and I know that the next thing to come out of her mouth will be something sympathetic that I don't want to hear.

Before she can say anything, though, a uniformed officer strides up behind us and puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but he doesn't seem to notice.

_Stokes?_

That's me.

Captain Brass sent me to find you. He said they're just getting ready to have a chat with your guy.

Thanks.

I look at Catherine, force a smile.

_Tell him I'll be right there._

* * *

The room seems small, too hot and too close, and I wonder if this queasy, trapped feeling is what it's like to be stuck on the other side of the interrogation table.

Benjamin Small is better looking than his older brother. Or he would be, if it weren't for the fat lip and the spectacularly shiny black eye. I guess you did get a couple of licks in after all, and if you didn't look like the second cousin to Frankenstein's monster right now, that might make me feel a little better.

He's big and rangy, shaggy dark hair and a beard that mostly hides his weak chin. His thin t-shirt exposes his forearms, the swastika tattooed on the back of his wrist. It looks like the kind of job kids do themselves with a Bic pen and a sewing needle.

He's smiling. Smiling and leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, like he thinks this is all some big fucking joke. I'm locked in place, joints stiff, back straight, palms flat on the table. Staring at him like I'm going to bore through his face with the force of my gaze, and that idea is almost satisfying enough to distract me from the image of him pinning you in the back of that van and--

Brass drums his fingers on the tabletop, thoughtfully. I can feel the vibration of them through my fingertips, but whatever he's thinking is hidden behind the bland façade he only uses when he's really angry. When he speaks, his voice is light, almost pleasant, and if it weren't for the fact that I'm sitting close enough to tell that he's practically radiating tension I might even buy it.

_I gotta tell you, Benny, I wouldn't want to be you. We already got you on kidnapping, sexual assault, attempted murder...you're going away for a long time. Be smart and cooperate, or I'll see if I can't make it even longer._

Where the fuck are you getting this from?

Greg Sanders. Remember him?

Small laughs, showing rotted teeth. His breath must reek. I'm glad I'm not close enough to smell it, and what it must have been like for you--

Stop. I have to stop thinking. Right now.

_Oh, that little faggot. I didn't touch him._

And the rush of fury is like getting hit with a bolt of electricity; I surge forward out of my seat before I quite know what I'm doing. Brass must have been expecting that, because before I can get all the way to my feet he reaches over under the table and grabs my knee in an iron grip, forcing me back down. He doesn't look away from Small, and his deadpan doesn't waver.

Small glances at me, smirks. Lifts a hand to rake his hair out of his eyes. His hands are big, and I'm betting they match up picture-perfect to the your bruises.

I want to open my mouth and ask him why, _why_, but my jaw is frozen and it's probably just as well. The sound of my own voice might be enough to set me off right now.

Brass squeezes my knee once, warningly, then lets go.

_Oh, no? Well, you'll be happy to know that we recovered the clothes that CSI Sanders was wearing when he was attacked. So we just need to get a DNA sample from you and if it doesn't match any of the blood or semen that we recovered, you'll be free to go._

Hey, buddy--

I'm not your buddy, asshole. Tell you what, we'll just end this right here. We have a warrant for your DNA. Either you volunteer a sample or we knock you out and get it ourselves. Your choice.

Small tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling for several long seconds. I want him to be nervous. Hell, I want him _terrified_, but when he drops his chin and looks at me--directly at me, even though I haven't said a word to him since I walked into the room--he's still smirking.

_You can suck my cock for all I care. I'm not giving you no fucking sample._

I shove my chair back and stand up. Over the ringing in my ears, I can hear Brass hiss my name, but I ignore it. Three long strides and I'm standing on the other side of the table. I grab Benny Small's jaw in both hands, bruisingly tight. He left those goddamn bruises on you, and it seems only fair that I return the favor.

The sudden fear in his eyes satisfies some part of me that I don't usually like to think about, but I don't hurt him. I could. I've got enough strength in my hands to dislocate his jaw before Brass could do anything about it, and God, is that tempting. Instead, I force his mouth open and swab the inside of his cheek, making no effort to be gentle. He tries to turn his head away and I dig my fingers into his flesh hard enough to make him wince. Up close, he does reek, a sour combination of unwashed clothes and strong liquor, and I cap the swab, shove myself away from him. His chair rocks back on its legs but doesn't fall over, and I step back a few paces.

He's staring at me, rubbing his jaw with an aggrieved expression. I have a gun on me. I need to get out of this room before I do something stupid.

* * *

When I stumble out into the hallway the air is noticeably cooler. I'm leaning over, bracing both hands on my knees and trying to swallow back the bile rising in my throat, when Catherine stands up from the bench where she was waiting. She must have followed me here. I didn't even notice.

_Nick?_

Yeah. I'm okay.

I see that.

She puts a warm hand on my shoulder. Through the thick interrogation room door I can hear Brass berating Small, but I discover that I don't even want to know what he's saying.

_Catherine..._

Hey. It's okay. Give me the swab, I'll take it over to Wendy. You go get some fresh air.

I close my eyes. Straighten my back with an effort, and hand over the capped swab.

_Thanks, Catherine._

Don't worry about it.

She plucks it out of my fingers and is striding away down the hall before I can get another word out.

* * *

She finds me a few hours later, sitting in Grissom's empty office. Hiding, really, filling out overdue reports--mindless busywork that I can't ruin in this mood--and the grim triumph on her face tells me everything I need to know before she says a word.

_The sample was a match. We got the bastard, Nicky._


	16. Stalled

A/N: I don't own _Independence Day_ or _Fight Club_, and Nick's opinions about the latter do not necessarily reflect my own.

I stop at home before heading over to your place. I'm not sure if you want me to stay again and I don't want to presume, but I also don't want to show up at work again in clothes that I've slept in; nobody would say anything but I'm trying to keep some semblance of professionalism. Finally, I compromise by throwing a few pairs of jeans and shirts in a backpack and leaving the backpack in my trunk. I heat up some leftovers, take a shower. I'm stalling. Grissom called you, I know. The pre-trial hearing is in three days.

I don't have any idea what I'm going to say to you when I get there. I want to grab a six-pack or something to bring over, to make this more like two guys just hanging out and not like--whatever it is, but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to drink with whatever painkillers they've got you on.

The sun's all the way up by the time I finally go out and start my truck, and the steering wheel is painfully hot to the touch. I roll the window down, let the arid wind blow the hair back off of my forehead. On the way there, I stop at a corner store and buy a carton of ice-cream. Vanilla. It's probably not what you like--too boring--but I guess I never thought to ask about ice-cream preferences.

You answer the door in the same sweats and t-shirt you were wearing when I left. You're unshaven and disheveled, and judging by the bags under your eyes you didn't actually manage to get any more sleep. You stand aside to let me in without a word. The shades in the living room are drawn, and the whole place smells strongly of fish sauce. There are half a dozen takeout boxes on the coffee table, and it doesn't look like any of them have been touched.

_Hey, Greggo._

Hey.

You walk back to the couch and sit down, pulling a cushion onto your lap and curling around it like a kid with a stomachache. I kick my shoes off and stand, awkwardly, in the entry hall.

_I got some ice cream._

Ice cream?

Yeah. Easier to eat with a busted lip than that crap.

This is not crap, Nick. This is the best takeout in Las Vegas.

Yeah, which is why you aren't eating. You want some or not?

What flavor?

Vanilla.

Predictably, you wrinkle your nose.

_Boring._

Hey, it's my favorite.

It's not, but you finally smile a little, crookedly, and that was the reaction I was hoping for.

_Yeah, I'll have some._

Stay there, I'll get it.

Yes, Mother.

You sound rebellious, but you don't move to get up. The TV is on, muted, and you flip idly through the channels without turning the sound on as I rummage around for a bowl. This feels weirdly domestic in a way that's simultaneously comfortable and horrific.

All your bowls are plastic and have cartoon characters printed on the bottoms. I dole out a few scoops and put the carton in the freezer, which contains a bottle of good vodka, a large paper bag of coffee beans, and nothing else.

You wedge yourself even tighter into the corner of the couch when I sit down, but you take the bowl I hand you with a murmured thanks.

_Independence Day_ is playing silently on the flatscreen TV, the White House going up in a flash of blue light and smithereens as I sink back against the cushions. I'm not really paying attention. I'm thinking about what Catherine said, about how I should talk to you. If I thought it would help I'd tell you everything, but I don't see how it could. What am I supposed to say? That I know what it's like to be so ashamed that you want to peel your own skin off just to get rid of that filthy feeling? That I know how it feels when you can't sleep because every time you shut your eyes it's happening over and over again? That I understand?

Hell with that. Solidarity doesn't fix anything. All I could do now is make you feel bad for me, and you're feeling bad enough on your own behalf.

_We could play Xbox, or something._

Your voice is soft, but it still startles me. And I want to say that's a good idea--God, anything to make this awful quiet go away--but I don't think I could use a controller with the thick pads of bandage on my palms, and your fingers are still splinted.

You come to the same conclusion before I can say anything, and shake your head, smiling ruefully.

_Or not. I don't know what to do with this._

Get better. That's all you have to do.

Yeah, but how?

You sound both frustrated and scared. This is a problem you can't fix just by thinking at it hard enough, and I'm betting there haven't been many of those in your life. For all the victims you've dealt with on the job, you're not used to being one of them, and I know just how terrifying it can be on the other end of a crime scene. I just wish you never had to find that out.

_If I knew that, I'd be a psychologist._

Yeah, Grissom told me I should go see one of those.

Yeah?

I really don't want to.

And right now I should probably tell you that you should talk to a therapist, that it's not that bad, that they really can help, blah, blah, blah--and to be fair, the guy Grissom made me see after that fiasco with Walter Gordon was nice enough--but I'm not your mother or your boss and I'd rather be honest.

_Don't blame you, man._

You nod, and spoon up a mouthful of ice cream, and for some reason I feel like I just passed some kind of test.

* * *

We watch the rest of the movie with the sound turned down low enough that I can hear your downstairs neighbors arguing. You finish half of the ice cream and leave the rest on the table along with the uneaten takeout to melt. When the credits start rolling I lean forward, elbows on my knees. I want to offer to stay again, but I'm not sure how it would come across.

You save me the trouble by scrolling through the TV menu and selecting another movie. _Fight Club._

You seen this?

No.

It's not really my style. I see enough blood and guts at work, and if I'm going to watch something for the fun of it, I want a comedy or a mindless action flick. But it's your TV, so I don't say anything as you press play and shift so that your feet are curled up underneath you. Even with the A/C on it isn't cold in your apartment, but you've been curled up in a ball since you sat down. That's not like you. You like to stretch out, to sprawl and drape yourself across every available surface. I've always liked that about you, that easy comfort you have in your own skin, and the thought of you losing that makes me feel weirdly panicky.

I watch the first fifteen minutes of the movie, which is enough for me to tell that I don't want to watch the rest of it. People beating the hell out of each other for the fun of it--I don't know. I guess I've processed too many dead bodies to find that entertaining. I shift against the arm of the couch, angling myself so that I can watch you instead.

You're looking at the TV, but you've got this expression on your face that makes me think you're not paying any more attention to the movie than I am. Your eyes are open and from this angle I can see the light from the screen reflecting in them, but your mobile face is unusually stiff. Arms wrapped around your knees, hunching in defensively. Lizard-brain instinct, to present a smaller target when threatened, and God, you should not be feeling like this on your own couch, in your own apartment.

I want to touch you, but I'm afraid of how you'll react. I'm not Catherine; I'm not good at saying the right thing at the right time. The only kind of comfort I know how to give is the kind I give my nieces and nephews--a hand on the shoulder, a hug, a band-aid and a kiss to make it all better. But touching you isn't a good idea right now, and I don't know what to say. So much for Catherine's big theory, because I've _been_ there--maybe not the same exact place you are right now, but close enough to know how it feels--and I still can't think of anything that would take away even a little of the hurt.

It's almost an hour into the movie when you abruptly lean forward, snatch up the remote and turn the TV off. I blink.

It's not dark in here. The Venetian blinds are made out of some kind of pale wood, muting the sunlight into a golden haze that catches dust-motes and gleams dully in your hair as you sink back against the couch, eyes closed, hands flat on your thighs. I open my mouth, then shut it. You're breathing hard, and I don't know whether it was something in the movie or something inside your own head that set you off.

You swallow convulsively, then lift your hands, slowly, deliberately relax your posture.

_Sorry._

It's okay, man. Not really my kind of movie anyway.

Figured.

Your voice is pinched. I shift over, put my feet on the floor and arch my back to get the kinks out. You look exhausted.

_You get any sleep?_

You huff out a dry, humorless little laugh.

_Not really. I talked to Grissom._

He told me he called.

He said they're going to need me to testify.

Yeah.

You're going to have to go back and look at those men across a courtroom. You're going to have to talk about it in front of a bunch of strangers. It's enough to make me sick, and the words, when they come, are easier than I expected to get out.

_You want me to stay?_

Yeah.

You sigh, rake your hair back out of your eyes. I wasn't expecting you to be that direct, but you're tired. Maybe too tired to play games, and that would be a nice change.

_Okay._

Unless you have somebody to be getting home to. Girlfriend, dog, that kind of thing.

I snort.

_No._

No? You seem like a dog person.

You insulting my taste in women?

I meant a real dog. Goes along with that whole...you know. Manly Texas country boy thing.

I'm from Dallas, Greg. That's a big city.

You lift one hand, make a dismissive gesture. It's a weak parody of your usual attitude.

_So, no dog?_

No. Wouldn't be able to look after one with all the doubles we end up working.

How about a girlfriend?

No girlfriend, either.

Same reason?

I shrug. That's a little of it, but there's a much bigger reason that I haven't had a girlfriend in ages, and it's not exactly something I can explain to you right now.

_Just haven't been having a lot of luck in that department lately._

That's true enough, I guess. Not much of an explanation if you push me, and normally you would; I think, sometimes, that you like to watch me squirm. You let it go, though, uncurl and stand up slowly, painfully. I stay on the couch, and you take a few steps toward the bedroom, stop, turn.

_You coming?_

So that's how it's going to be. The universe must enjoy fucking with me, but if this is what you need from me, then this is what I'm doing. Save me the trouble of rushing into your room when you have a nightmare, anyway, but that doesn't stop the strange weakness in my knees when I stand.

_Yeah. I'm coming._

* * *

My second day in your bed, I don't sleep at all. I don't expect you to sleep either, but I guess the combination of exhaustion and Vicodin finally caught up with you, because you drop off within minutes. My khakis feel lumpy and binding, but I don't want to shift and wake you up.

You sleep curled in a ball with four pillows under your head. If you have any nightmares, I can't tell.


	17. Hearing

I'm sitting on one of the hard benches in the high, arched hall outside the courtroom. Sunlight streams in through the dusty windows, and it's always a little surreal now to be awake in the middle of the day. My tie feels too tight. I put on a suit in case you changed your mind and wanted me to come in, give some moral support during the hearing, but you told me to wait outside. I'm not testifying, not today. They'll probably call me up if--_when_--it goes to trial, but today it's just Brass and Catherine. And you.

Two women walk by, wearing expensive suits and carrying tall paper cups of Starbucks coffee. They're chattering in sharp, bright voices, and I have to control the urge to put my fingers in my ears. It feels like the whole world is pressing in on me. Somebody just cleaned the floors, and the piney smell of polish is too strong, clogging my nostrils.

The heavy oak door at the end of the hallway creaks open and I straighten. Brass comes through, holds the door for Catherine, then lets it swing shut. You're still in there. Probably on the stand right now.

Sara wanted to come in today, but she's working a double. She stopped by the apartment yesterday afternoon when I was getting ready for work, and she didn't even ask what I was doing there. You apologized for being a jerk and she socked your shoulder and called you an idiot in a teary little voice, and I guess that means things are okay between you two again.

At the end of the hall, Brass and Catherine are conferring in low voices. Finally Brass nods and walks away with his hands stuffed in his pockets. And now Catherine's coming toward me.

I look down at the gleaming marble floor, then back up at her as she approaches, raising my eyebrows like I just noticed she's here.

_Hey, Catherine. How'd it go in there?_

Well, we've been banished.

Yeah, likewise.

Mind if I sit?

I shrug, gesture at the bench beside me.

_Make yourself at home._

Thanks, Nicky.

She perches on the edge of the bench with her knees and heels together. Ladylike, my mother would say, and I'd call that ironic if it weren't for the fact that no matter what she used to do for a living, Catherine is every inch a lady.

_Greg kicked you out, huh?_

He said we'd just distract him.

He told me the same thing. I don't know, Catherine, I just...

I trail off. I think you just didn't want us to hear you talk about that night. Like you can pretend it didn't happen as long as you don't say anything to anybody you know, and I guess I can understand that, but it still hurts me to think about you facing down that scumbag defense attorney by yourself.

_As long as it goes to trial, right? Shouldn't have any problems there._

My voice doesn't sound right, and at first I think that's why Catherine grimaces. She's staring at her hands, which are clenching and un-clenching in her lap.

_Nick..._

What?

The lawyer knows that he's gay. That creep must have told him.

What, are you telling me that son of a bitch is trying to claim consent? Jesus, Catherine, Greg spent a week in the hospital.

He's not claiming consent.

She sighs, presses her palms against her knees like she's trying to squash the nervous movement out of them.

_Not directly, anyway. But he's _implying_ that Greg's exaggerating his injuries, and--_

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and my reaction must be showing on my face, because she shakes her head quickly before continuing.

_I know. It won't stand up. He's just grasping at straws; we have truckloads of evidence and they don't have a single shred, but he's going to try to rattle Greg on the stand._

And normally I'd say you're impossible to rattle, but in a situation like this--

Before I can even begin to think of something to say back, the courtroom door opens, and we both look up, almost synchronized, in time to see you step--stumble--out. It swings shut behind you and you just stand there, swaying in place like a breath of wind might send you tumbling. You shake your head violently, catch sight of us, and start down the hallway with the kind of headlong stumble that I usually associate with drunks.

We stand up as you approach. You're so pale that I can almost see the traceries of veins under your skin, fading bruises a sickly yellow color, eyes like dark holes. Catherine puts a hand out, although you stop well out of arm's reach.

_Greg--_

It's going to trial.

The words come falling out of your mouth before she can even get the question out, and then you shake your head again. Your eyes fix on me, desperately.

_Can we just--go home?_

Catherine's expression flickers at the last word, but I just nod.

_Yeah, man. Let's go._

* * *

On the ride home you're as still and silent as a marble carving. I don't know what I was expecting--tears, maybe, or ranting--but there's just nothing. If it weren't for the slow rise and fall or your chest, I almost wouldn't believe that you're still breathing.

I glance over at you so many times that it's a miracle I don't rear-end somebody, but you don't react at all, even when I have to slam on the brakes to avoid an improbably purple minivan pulling away from the Bellagio.

I want to ask what the hell that lawyer said to you, but I manage to keep my mouth shut for the fifteen minutes it takes to get to your apartment. When I pull into the parking spot and turn the engine off and you still don't move, I finally clear my throat.

_Greg?_

My voice is scratchy. You slowly turn to face me, and your eyes are as blank as two new coins. A trickle of cold fear runs down my spine, and then you shake your head and animation comes back into your face.

_Sorry. I was thinking._

Do you--what do you want me to do?

Loaded question, I guess, and I never thought I'd be glad--guiltily glad--that you lack the wherewithal right now to ferret out hidden implications. You shrug, and answer the most obvious part.

_Stay._

* * *

Five days in your bed. Five. And I don't know why or how--or even really _if_--this is helping, but you haven't had any screaming nightmares since that first day. I'm expecting one today, though.

It's the cold that wakes me up. You leave the A/C turned up higher than I'm used to, but even from the other side of your big bed you radiate heat. I don't hear you slide off of the mattress; I don't even hear the bedroom door open, but I find myself rolling over into an expanse of cool sheets that seems to go on forever, and my eyes blink open.

A loud _thud_ from the other room wakes me the rest of the way up. I roll out of bed and pad out into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, and it's not even really that much of a surprise to see you sitting against the kitchen cabinets with a bottle of vodka clutched in one hand. You must have spilled a little, because I can smell the alcohol from here.

_Greg. What are you doing, man?_

Go back to bed, Nick.

I don't think so. What are you doing?

You turn your face away as I approach, but the sun is still high and there's plenty enough light for me to see that your cheeks are wet.

_Drinking._

Yeah, I see that. You supposed to be drinking with the meds you're on?

No.

You shake your hair back, tilt the bottle against your mouth and take a long swig. A thin trickle of vodka slides over your chin and you wipe it away, impatiently, with the back of your hand. Your eyes are closed, still leaking tears, your whole body collapsed against the cabinets, narrow bare feet resting on the linoleum floor. I take a few steps closer, drop my voice.

_Greg, come on. Give me that. You're too smart to be doing this to yourself. Come on._

You make a choked little sound that isn't even close to a laugh, put your head back against the wooden cabinet door. The smile on your face reminds me of the one Sara uses when she's trying not to puke.

_If I was so smart I would have reported him. If I was so smart I wouldn't have got into a fight with him in the first place. If I was so smart I would have locked my fucking car doors when I stopped for coffee._

I'm kneeling next to you now, out of reach but so close that I can feel myself falling into that immense field of energy you always carry along with you, like a living hurricane. Prickling, manic electricity, and I can't believe nobody thought to tell you.

_You did lock your door, Greg. They jimmied the lock. Archie and I watched the surveillance tape._

It doesn't matter, Nick!

You're suddenly, angrily animated, shoving yourself away from the cabinets and staggering to your feet, bottle still clutched in your hand.

_Don't you _get_ it? It doesn't fucking matter. Because they're going to say that I asked for it, or that I made it up just to get back at him, and then there's my whole fucking life spread all over the papers. You know there was a reporter there?_

No. I didn't know that.

She wanted to talk to me. That's why I ran for it. She wanted 'my side of the story'. Like it's some kind of fucking reality show, or something.

I climb to my feet, knees popping, bracing one hand against the countertop as you take another drink and then fling your arms out, liquor sloshing in the bottle. You're laughing now, raw hysteria edged with fear, and the worst part is that I don't even think the drugs have much to do with it at all.

_'Life of the Faggot' or something._

I put both hands up, displaying empty palms. Nonthreatening.

_Greg, man, it's not going to be like that. Put the bottle down._

I've used the same tone on violent men, telling them to put the gun down. Put the knife down. I take a slow, sliding step closer, keeping eye contact. Calm. It's not that I think you're going to attack me, but I don't know what you'll do if I spook you now and I don't really want to find out.

_They were just sitting there, the three of them. Wearing suits and everything. And that fucking lawyer--'you are a homosexual, aren't you, Mr. Sanders? Are you sure you never consented to any kind of sexual contact with my clients, Mr. Sanders? Any at all?'_

Greg--

You know what they said, Nick? In that van? They said I was asking for it. They were fucking laughing at me and they said I was asking for it, bringing Brian into that diner like I did.

I close my eyes, too late. My face feels numb and stinging, like I've been slapped. If you keep talking, I'm going to start crying, right here in your kitchen, and that's the last thing you need.

_Man, you know that's not true._

Don't tell me it never even crossed your mind. That I brought it on myself.

Not once.

Don't fucking lie to me, Nick.

I'm not lying, man. Nobody asks for this. Believe me, I know that.

Putting as much force into the words as I can and something must get through to you, because you finally open your eyes and look at me. You look dazed, and I take advantage of that to step forward and tug the vodka bottle out of your hand. The cap's sitting in a pool of liquor on the stone countertop, and I twist it on, set the bottle aside.

_Hey._

I'm not going to stand here and watch you drink yourself sick.

Bastard.

Just like that, all that furious tension is draining out of you like somebody pulled a plug. I step closer, get an arm around your shoulders as you start to tilt dangerously to one side, and you sag against me so that I'm supporting your full weight. You're heavier than you look.

_Come on, let's get you to bed._

I think I'm going to puke.

Voice ragged and tired and you drop your head against my shoulder. Over the antiseptic sting of expensive vodka I can smell shampoo and detergent and sleep-warm skin, and that's exactly the kind of thing I don't want to be noticing right now.

_Bathroom, then. One foot in front of the other._

I know how to go.

Do I need to call an ambulance?

I didn't drink that much. Just tired. Queasy.

And doped up. Alcohol combined with opiates--

I said I didn't drink that much. It'll metabolize in my system.

That would make me feel a lot better if you didn't stumble over 'metabolize'.

_Yeah, well, if you start foaming at the mouth I'm taking you to the hospital, okay?_

I'm only half-joking, but you nod against my shoulder as I ease you down onto the bathroom floor.

_Whatever you say, Nick._

Now, I'm going to hold you to that. Head between your knees.

I get you situated, seated against the bathtub with your forehead resting on your pajama-clad kneecaps, before going back into the kitchen. The vodka goes back in the freezer and I wipe up the spill on the counter, automatically. I'm wrapping a plastic bag of ice cubes in a dishtowel when the sound of retching reaches my ears.

When I come back in, you've got the toilet lid up, and you're leaning your cheek against the wall next to the paper dispenser. You turn your head a little when I crouch down next to you, give me a twisted little smile.

_Just like college, right?_

College is overrated.

Yeah.

I offer the makeshift ice pack and you take it, press it to the back of your neck. And it seems like the most natural thing in the world to reach out and stroke your damp, curly hair off your forehead, so natural that I'm already pulling my hand back before I realize how out of line it was. I don't have the right to act like a concerned boyfriend. I need to remember that.

If you're bothered by the gesture you don't give any sign, but you're too messed up right now for me to read much into that.

_I keep wanting to ask why they did it. And you know, I always hated it when families would ask that kind of question, because there's never any good answer, is there?_

No. There never is.

Sometimes people are just evil. Sometimes there isn't a better explanation, and it took me a long while to learn to live with that even when I didn't know the victims. This--I don't think I'm ever going to learn to live with this, and that's not even a candle to how you're feeling.

You close your eyes. Your lashes are dark and spiky with tears.

_Nick?_

Yeah?

Thanks for...you know, for being here.

No problem, man. That's what friends are for.

And no matter what I might wish I was to you, that's what I am. A friend. All I can do now is try to be a good one.


	18. Two Weeks

A week after the hearing, I drive you to the hospital to get the stitches in your mouth taken out. I'm still staying at your apartment. We still haven't talked about it. Part of me feels like we should, but I don't really know how to bring the subject up. Every time I leave for a shift I ask if you want me to come back, and every single time, you nod. And I'm too much of a damn coward to push it.

You're quiet on the ride there and quiet on the ride home, tonguing your lower lip in a way that distracts me more than I want it to. Since the hearing, you've been weirdly subdued, like you burned out all of your rage over three angry gulps of vodka in your kitchen that afternoon and now there's nothing left. Like this really has broken you in some fundamental way, and that's a subject that my mind shies away from considering.

This is the part we never see as CSI's. We caught the bad guys. They're going away for a long time. Everything should be okay now, but it's not.

* * *

I start running again as soon as my ankle's healed. Usually in the early hours of the morning when I get home from work--not home. When I get back to your apartment after work. It isn't home, it's not going to be home, and I shouldn't want it to be. Not like this. You're going to get better, and I'm going to go back to my own place, and that's how it should be.

Damn it. It's too easy to get comfortable with you. With this. Whatever this is.

You gave me a set of keys this morning. It took longer than usual for you to answer the door when I knocked, and when you did, messy-haired and pajama-clad and rubbing sleep from your eyes, I felt guilty for waking you up. I apologized, and you just shrugged and tossed me a set of keys before wandering back into the living room to watch the end of one of those terrible crime dramas you like.

I'm learning a lot about your TV preferences lately. You like bad crime dramas, any show where things go boom (and that should be surprising, given your track record with explosions, but somehow it isn't), and soap operas. You'll also occasionally leave the TV on reruns of old Star Trek episodes while you're reading, for background noise.

No explanation for the keys. Even if you had a set of spares on hand, I still have a feeling you were planning it, but you never said anything. When I asked what they were for, you looked at me like I was an idiot and told me they were for unlocking the front door. You don't want to talk about what we're doing here any more than I do. Maybe we're both afraid of what we'll find out.

The keys are hooked on a ring along with my truck keys, my locker key, and the set that unlock an apartment that I've barely been inside for two weeks, a distracting, jingling weight banging against my thigh with every stride.

These streets aren't familiar yet, after only a few days of running. It's not as nice a neighborhood as you could afford; there are cracks in the hot gray pavement that smacks up against the sidewalk without even a line of scrub grass in between. Most of the kids I see pedaling their bikes past concrete walls and broken newspaper dispensers wear cheap knock-off brand clothing. There's an old woman who lives three doors down from your apartment in a little house with pink stucco siding. She's always there when I jog past, sitting on the porch and smoking and watching the street with an inscrutable expression that reminds me of a Buddha statue.

The air is heavy with exhaust fumes and smoke from someone's charcoal grill. It's not a nice neighborhood, but it does have character. That's probably why you chose it. I wonder if your neighbors know you, if they expect to see you, if they wonder why you haven't been outside in ages.

Your kidnapping made the news, but the specifics didn't. It's a small thing to be grateful for.  


* * *

When I fumble the door open, using my new keys for the first time, you're on the phone. I shut the door with elaborate care, but you still glance up at me from your seat in the recliner. Just a casual glance, 'oh, you're here', like I didn't just let myself into your place for the first time. Like this is normal.

You look away, out the window at the colony of pigeons decorating your neighbor's roof with birdshit. Your phone is trendily old-fashioned, with a cord that's already knotted from you twisting it around your fingers the way you're doing now.

_...don't really want to talk about it, Jer._

Jer is probably Jeremy. Jeremy Heller. The guy with his arm around you in the picture on the fridge. There are a couple of other pictures of him around the apartment. You guys broke up not long after college, but you still talk. Amicable breakup. I've never really had one of those, which might be why the tense politeness in your tone weirds me out so much.

_No, Mom's back in LA dealing with Papa. He's okay. Just...yeah. Yeah, I have somebody._

A pause, during which the hot breath scraping my throat and the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears seems unbearably loud. I feel like I should move out of the hallway, go take a shower and change out of my sweaty workout gear, but I'm frozen.

_He's a friend, Jeremy, okay? His name's Nick. Look, I just...how's Aaron doing? Did he get that contract?_

I toe off my sneakers, grab clean clothes out of my bag, and head into the bathroom. The noise of the shower drowns out the rest of the conversation.

* * *

When I come out of the bathroom, dressed and toweling off my hair, you've migrated from the armchair to the couch. The TV is off and your eyes are closed, but I don't think you're sleeping. Your long legs are flung carelessly over the arm of the couch, pajama pants rucked up to your knees. Your right hand is resting on your chest, rising and falling with each breath. The fingers are still splinted. It's amazing how long something as minor as a cracked knuckle can take to heal.

I jerk open the fridge door more to distract myself than because I'm really hungry. There are several boxes of takeout, half a bottle of Pepsi, and the remains of a pecan pie that Sara brought from the bakery near her place the last time she stopped over. She's been by a couple of times. So has Catherine. Grissom and Warrick haven't, but they still know I'm staying here. I've been braced for questions about it for the better part of a week, but there haven't been any. I shut the door.

_I'm going to run out and get groceries._

You lift your head and blink at me sleepily from the couch. You haven't been taking your painkillers lately so I know it's not the drugs making you groggy, but you still haven't really been sleeping well.

_What for? Grissom's still paying my takeout bill for two weeks._

I can't live on pad thai, Greg, and neither can you. Do you even know how to cook?

Sure.

Ramen noodles and Easy-Mac don't count.

I can make coffee. And chocolate cake.

Chocolate cake.

Yeah, Nana Olaf taught me when I was, like, ten. It's good.

Okay, we need some real food in this place.

What's wrong with chocolate cake?

Nothing, with your metabolism, but some of us are getting up there in years and like to eat something with nutrients in it once in a while.

You smile and unfold yourself from the couch, come into the kitchen and jab my belly.

_Old man._

Hey. Watch it.

Let me get dressed and I'll go with you.

This is the first time you've expressed any interest in leaving the apartment since we got back from the hospital. It feels significant, but I manage to stop myself before I can comment.

If you're aware that this is going to be the first time in a week that you've been outside, you hide it well, and when you come back into the kitchen with your hair all disheveled from yanking a t-shirt down over it, you look so like your old self that the breath catches in my throat. The bruises are nearly gone, and your hair hides the cut across your forehead that hasn't quite healed yet.

Your cheeks are still gaunt, though, and the tiny smile you give me as you reach for your sneakers doesn't quite reach your eyes. I turn away and pretend to busy myself with digging my wallet out of the stack of bills on the counter.

* * *

At the store I get the staples, bread and milk and sandwich fixings. You add a five-pound bag of Blue Hawaiian, jalapeño chips, and a quart of some weird banana-peanut butter ice-cream. If this is how you normally eat--and the lunches I've seen you bring to work kind of suggest that it is--I have no idea how you're this skinny.

You're tense, but it's not the white-knuckled panic that I remember from when we picked up your prescriptions from the drugstore. This is just wariness, a kind of quiet paranoia, and you're still humming with it when we get back to the apartment. While I put the groceries away, you pull out your little French press and put a pot of water on to boil, and when I turn around you're measuring coffee grounds into the glass carafe with way more concentration than the task really requires.

_Isn't it a little late for that?_

There's really no lexicon for time of day when you work the graveyard and your clock is flipped a hundred and eighty degrees from normal. Late is ten AM, early is six PM, and after a while we stop noticing the discordance. For most people, ten o'clock in the morning is a perfectly reasonable time to be drinking coffee, but I have to work tonight and you still sleep like you're going on the night shift.

_It's never too late for coffee, Nick. You want some?_

No thanks. Got to get my beauty sleep; I'm on shift tonight.

I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. This is another thing we don't talk about, but you just shrug.

_I talked to Grissom._

It's a non-sequitor, but I got used to following those years ago. You always talk around a subject before getting into it, and it usually starts making sense eventually.

_Yeah?_

Yeah. He asked me when I'm coming back to work.

Your voice is carefully even, but when you take the pot off the burner your hands shake badly enough that boiling water sloshes all over the counter. I lift it out of your hands before you can scald both of us.

_What did you tell him?_

Gotta go back eventually, right? It's not like I'm planning to spend the rest of my life sitting around and watching reruns of 'Law & Order'.

You lean back against the counter, hands gripping the edge like it's the only thing keeping you from flying to pieces, and I think maybe I understand a little why you suddenly decided to go out to the store with me today. Inside the apartment you can pretend that the outside world isn't a threat; this space, bounded by four plaster walls, is safe for you. But you'll have to leave eventually, and I guess you know that as well as I do. One way or another, you have to start living again.

I pour the carafe full of hot water and set the pot aside, lean back against the sink while steam loops up in lazy spirals.

_There's no hurry, man. You got enough vacation saved up to take off until Christmas._

Yeah, well, I'm starting to go a little stir-crazy here anyway.

Your whole body is one long line of tension, totally at odds with the light tone of your voice. I touch your shoulder. It's a gamble, touching you when you're like this, but you don't jerk away like you have once or twice before.

_You don't have to prove anything, Greg._

A sigh, then you press the heel of your left hand against your forehead. The fingernails that you tore out--I don't know how, I didn't ask, although I can think of half a dozen ways it could have happened--are starting to grow back, but they still look pretty gruesome.

_I know. I just want things back to normal._

I wait, but it looks like that's all I'm getting out of you today. You put the screen over the coffee and press it down, hands still shaking, and I hand you a mug from the drain. I feel like this is the moment for me to say something insightful, but I got nothing. Much as I want to fix this for you, it's your battle to fight.  


* * *

When I get back from work the next morning you meet me in the entry hall dressed in baggy shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off.

_What's up?_

I'm going running with you.

There's a little bit of a challenge in your face now, like you're expecting an argument, but I just nod.

_Cool. I could use the company._

I set an easy pace that morning, but you start pushing it almost immediately. You're a good runner. I remember being surprised about that when we first started training for the marathon. I'll probably always be faster in a sprint, but you've got the spare, rangy build of a distance runner, and once you hit your stride you can go for miles before you get tired.

It is nice to have the company, your footsteps on the pavement in sync with mine, the rasp of your breath in my ears. When I glance over, your face has smoothed out; you look meditative and calm. Running out your demons, and God knows I've tried that often enough. They always come back eventually, but it's still good to see you feeling okay again, if only for a little while.

I'm breathing hard by the time we loop around and start heading back down your street, which is why I almost miss the little wave you give to the old woman smoking on her porch. She waves back. It's the first time I've seen her acknowledge anyone or anything, and I don't know why, but it makes me smile.


	19. Steps

Four days after we start running, I find myself sitting in the diner with Warrick and Sara after shift. Not Meducci's; I don't care how good their apple turnovers are, I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to drive past that place without wanting to blow it up, and even Grissom isn't insensitive enough to ask you to go back in there. Our diner. Frank's. Catherine's on her way over to pick you up.

Warrick's got a sort of dazed expression that I know is mirrored on my face; Catherine and Sara shepherded us over here after shift without so much as a 'by your leave'. It's a good thing those two don't gang up on us more often, because when they do it's sort of like trying to grapple with a force of nature. Grissom managed to escape, but he's Grissom. And I gather that he's stuck in a meeting with Ecklie right now, so maybe _escape_ isn't the right word for it.

I'm on my third cup of bad diner coffee. Normally I'd be buzzing with the infusion of caffeine, but I've gotten used to your coffee and this stuff is like dishwater in comparison. Tastes more or less like dishwater, too. I dump another packet of sugar in my cup, wondering idly how many packets it would take to turn the coffee into brownish sugary sludge and whether or not that would improve the flavor. Sara clears her throat, and I look up.

_So, there was a reporter lurking around the labs today._

I wouldn't know that, because I've barely been inside the labs all day, and I don't think Warrick or Catherine have either. It's been a busy week, but Sara was running some kind of experiment for her arson case, so she's been stuck inside all day.

_What did he want?_

She, actually. She wanted to talk to Greg.

That's...did she say why?

She's doing some kind of human interest piece on his case. I said that he wasn't around, but I kind of got the impression that she wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Warrick sets his cup down and tilts his chair back on two legs.

_Oh, that's going to go over great._

Yeah.

That why you dragged us out here?

No. I just--we_ just thought Greg should start getting out of the house some._

If I know Sara, she didn't bother consulting you about it. I'm going to say something about that--about how you're just now starting to get out of the house, and how maybe you need to take things slow for a little while--when the bell above the entrance chimes and I look up to see Catherine stride through the door with you trailing bemusedly in her wake.

You're wearing clean jeans and a thin red t-shirt, perfectly normal clothing, but for some reason you look painfully out of place in this greasy diner that we've all been to dozens of times. Maybe it's the set of your mouth, or your eyes, which don't lose their haunted expression even when you greet Warrick and Sara and pull your chair out to sit down. I've gotten used to it, but seeing you out here with the backdrop of everyday people makes me realize how much you've changed.

The others notice it too. I can tell. Sara and Catherine, at least, have seen you in the past couple of weeks but Warrick hasn't, and he keeps shooting glances at you while you pour over the menu. He does subtle pretty well, and I don't think you notice.

The waitress is hovering. She's forty-ish and bleached-blonde, simultaneously tired and brisk in a way that only waitresses ever seem to manage. I don't know her name, but I recognize her, and I know she recognizes you, because she smiles when you look up.

_Coffee for you, I know._

If you can call that coffee.

You smile back, but your shoulders are still hunched and I'm suddenly very glad that she doesn't seem to be one of those women who likes to touch people in casual conversation.

_Anything else?_

Just coffee for now, thanks.

Sara pokes your shoulder, hard.

_Greg, you should eat something._

I'm not hungry.

Get him your number three breakfast combo. Strawberry sauce on the pancakes, eggs over easy.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at your disgruntled expression as the waitress dutifully writes down the order. It's kind of sad that Sara can recite your favorite breakfast from memory, but then again, so can I. And that's even sadder, because at least Sara has the excuse of you dragging her out to breakfast at least once a week for the past few years.

You jab at your food when the waitress brings it out, complain about the coffee, laugh at Warrick's absurd work stories, which I suspect he's been saving up to tell you. By the time dessert shows up, you're looking almost normal, and Catherine leans forward on her elbows.

_So, Greg. Grissom tells me you're coming back to us soon._

Just like that, the atmosphere changes; there's a sudden heavy stillness in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. You nod, casually, and set down your fork.

_Thinking about it, yeah. Of course, Grissom wants me to go get my head shrunk first, but..._

Can't hurt.

You make a face, shrug. You're damn good at maintaining a calm front when it suits you, and none of us is rude enough to comment on the slight tremor in your hands, the one you always get when you're nervous or upset.

_Ah, I don't know. I'm gonna see if I can talk him out of it._

You push your half-eaten plate of cake away with a sudden, scraping noise.

_Nick, you feel like giving me a lift home? I'm getting kind of tired. The meds, you know..._

The meds you haven't been taking. Like everybody doesn't know that I'm heading back to your place today anyway. I push my chair back and stand up.

_Yeah, man. Just let me get the check, and--_

Warrick's deep voice interrupts me as he stands up almost in unison with you.

_Nick, man, don't worry about it. We got it._

You sure?

Yeah. Seriously, it's cool. You take care of yourself, okay, Sanders?

He slings a heavy arm over your shoulder, the same casual, friendly kind of hug that he's given you countless times before, and I see your face stiffen as a shudder rolls up your spine.

It's just for a second, then you smile, duck out from under his arm, and take three steps back.

_Yeah, you know me. I got to run to the bathroom; Nick, I'll meet you out by the truck--thanks for breakfast, everybody--_

And you're gone, vanishing around the corner so fast I'm surprised you aren't running. I look back at Warrick, who's watching your retreating back with a stricken expression on his face. Of course he noticed. He's too good at his job not to.

_Is he okay?_

He'll be fine.

Sara and Catherine are looking at me now, too, and any semblance of normal just went out the window. Suddenly, the warm smells of coffee and frying grease, the background murmur of other conversations, the light, the heat are all pressing in too close and I feel like everybody in here must be staring at me. I grip the back of my chair until my palms ache, close my eyes and will the sensation to pass. When I open them again, Warrick is the only one still looking at me. Catherine and Sara are studiously examining their empty plates.

_I didn't mean--_

He knows that. He's not--look, it's just the subconscious reacting to perceived danger before higher brain function kicks in. It'll pass.

Maybe eventually. Maybe not ever, but I'm not going to say that to Warrick when he's still looking guilty and worried and a little skeptical.

_You've done your reading._

I shrug, unwilling to admit that I spent most of fourth grade squirming out of hugs and shying away from kisses on the cheek. I don't know how my mother never noticed, but she had seven kids and a busy career, so I don't hold it against her. Much. Anymore.

And anyway, it wasn't until college that I learned all the terminology--sex education not really being a high priority in Texas high schools in the late eighties--so I guess you could say that I have done my reading on that subject.

Catherine probably has at least some inkling of all that, but I don't look over at her as I pull out a couple of singles to leave for our tip. Sara's peering into her coffee cup, looking almost as uncomfortable as Warrick does, and I suddenly remember what we were talking about before you came in.

_Sara, you didn't mention anything about that reporter._

She jumps, splashes hot coffee on her hand, and swears.

_I forgot. And then we were all just talking and--I didn't want to make things awkward._

Too late for that.

Yeah.

She sighs. I reach across the table and pat her hand.

_For what it's worth, I think you were right. He does need to start getting out._

Yeah, because this was such a success.

One step forward, two steps back. That's just how it goes.

What I'm saying is true--I know it is, I've been there myself and I've watched it from the outside more times than I can count--but that really doesn't make it any easier. From the look on Sara's face, she's thinking more or less the same thing.

I push my chair in and take a step back.

_Greg's probably waiting for me. I should get going._

Warrick puts out a hand to stop me as I pass him.

_Nick, uh, can you tell Greg I'm sorry? Didn't mean anything by it._

He knows that. But yeah, I'll tell him.  


* * *

You're waiting by the truck when I come outside, leaning against the hot sheet metal with your arms crossed and your eyes hidden behind dark shades. I'm going to have to tell you about that reporter eventually, but for now I just unlock the doors and climb inside the stuffy cab.

I pass along Warrick's apology and you make an indistinct noise and look away, jaw clenched in what I suspect is probably as much embarrassment as anything else. You've never liked being caught off your guard, and you're trying so hard to pretend that everything's okay that it must sting to have even momentary agitation on display.

You're quiet for the first half of the ride, and it's not until I'm pulling onto your street that you finally look over at me, tip your sunglasses up in a move that I know you copied from gangster movies. It almost makes me smile, but when you speak your voice wavers somewhere between defiance and fear.

_Do you think I should?_

Do I think you should what?

See a therapist.

Right. That. I run a hand over my face; my skin feels hot and chapped from the desert wind.

_If that's what it takes to get Grissom to let you come back--_

What, you're not going to tell me it's for my own good? That I need to start developing healthy coping mechanisms?

There's a sharp edge to your tone now, and I'm wondering if you talked to Ecklie or something, because I sure as hell can't imagine Grissom coming up with a phrase like that. I consider my words carefully before speaking.

_Doesn't matter what I think, Greg. You're a grown man. It's not my place to tell you how to handle this._

That must have been the right thing to say, because some of the bitterness leaches out of your expression. Not all of it, not by a long shot, but some.

_Wish I hadn't freaked out on Warrick like that. I feel bad._

He understands.

Still. It was just...I don't know.

I know, man.

Do you?

Something about your voice makes me glance over at you, squinting in the early morning glare. You look thoughtful, and this is cutting a little too close to things I don't really want to talk to you about, but I'm not going to lie.

_Yeah. I do._

I pray you'll leave it at that, but I know how you can get when curiosity strikes. Mark of a good CSI, curiosity--that's what I told Grissom when you first started talking about getting into the field, and you've always had buckets of it to spare. And I should be grateful--I _am_ grateful--that you're starting to take notice of what's going on around you again, but I wish you'd picked something else to be observant about.

For the time being, at least, you don't seem inclined to push the matter, because you just nod, slide your shades back on, and tilt your head back against the sticky leather seat.  


* * *

We're at the table with beers that neither of us are drinking, just sitting and pretending that the silence hovering in the cool air of your kitchen isn't awkward, when you suddenly nod decisively and straighten in your chair.

_I'm going to do it._

Just as if we've been talking all along, and it's probably a little sad that I don't have any trouble following you.

_Therapy?_

Work's my therapy, Nick. I do any more sitting around and my ass is going to fall off. I need to get back on the job, and if I need to go talk to a shrink to make that happen, well--

Good. That's good.

I figure two sessions, three, tops, and he--or she, whatever--can report to Grissom that I'm a glowing state of excellent mental health, and then I can get back to the labs.

I still haven't said anything about the reporter, but now you're scrambling suddenly to your feet. You chug the rest of your beer like a frat boy, set the empty bottle down, and before I can even think of what to say you're heading toward the bathroom with a nervous kind of momentum, like you can outrun thought if you just keep moving.

_Greg, man--_

I'm gonna take a shower. Don't wait up, I know you have to work again tonight--

The door swings firmly shut, and I drop my forehead into my palm and sigh.

One step forward, two steps back.


	20. Work Stories

A/N: This is everything I have posted on WMDB. I've just moved into a new house and don't have internet yet; although Chapter 21 is finished it might take me a while to upload it. I haven't abandoned this story, I promise.

Late that afternoon, three prominent businessmen are found bound, gagged, and shot execution-style in the kitchen of a classy restaurant. I spend three days sleeping on the lumpy couch in the break room while we work the case around the clock, and it feels weird on the morning of the forth day to let myself into your place. I haven't been back to my apartment in weeks except to pick up my mail. You're still acting like there's nothing strange about this, and you spend the morning kicking my ass at Halo and coming up with absurd speculations about the case.

It's almost a week before we manage to get out for a run again, and I'm feeling off my game, letting you set the pace. We go for two miles at an easy jog before I finally feel my mind stop spinning, lulled into a meditative state by the rhythm of exercise, and then we're rounding the corner of your street and without warning you break into a sprint. It's so unexpected that it takes me a few seconds to follow suit and by then you're flying ahead of me, head back, hands pumping at your sides as your long strides eat up the pavement.

We stumble to a halt outside your apartment building, and I lean over, bracing my hands on my thighs as I gulp at the muggy air. You bounce on your heels, shake your shoulders out, then flop down onto the lawn, laughing breathlessly.

_You're losing your edge._

Hey, give me a break. I haven't had a full eight hours sleep this week.

Any leads?

We think it was the waiter. Why_ is anybody's guess, but we don't have enough for a conviction yet._

You close your eyes. Your face is flushed and sweaty and unexpectedly calm in the golden light.

_I miss it, Nick. The chase._

You talk to Grissom yet?

Yeah. He gave me the number for the department shrink.

I can't tell from your voice whether or not you're annoyed about that, so I keep my tone neutral.

_And?_

I'm going. My appointment's Tuesday.

Do you want me to give you a--

I'll take the bus.

The interruption stings a little, and then you look up at me, shaking your bangs out of your eyes. Your hair needed a trim before all this went down, and by now it's almost long enough to pull into a ponytail at the back, streaky blond and unexpectedly curly.

_I need to start getting out on my own._

Your voice is soft, but it hits hard. I forget, sometimes, how thoughtful you can be under that wise-cracking exterior, and you're right, of course. We can't go on like this much longer; one way or another, something's got to give.

I don't really know what to say, so I don't say anything at all. When you lean forward to get to your feet, I offer you a hand up and you take it with only an instant of hesitation, strong fingers gripping, palm hot and dry against my own.  


* * *

It's the very next day when the reporter shows up.

You're in the shower, and I'm cooking breakfast--dinner--whatever. Pancakes. My hair is wet and sticking to the back of my neck; I probably need a haircut too. It's been a while since I've paid much attention to my reflection in the mirror.

We have a routine, you and I. Running in the morning, then taking turns in the shower. In some ways it reminds me of being back in the frathouse, except for the fact that both of us take our clothes into the bathroom to change. Some days, like today, I cook. It's almost comfortable, like we're roommates or something instead of whatever the hell we actually are.

I'm flipping the last pancake onto a plate when I hear the knock on the door. It smells like maple syrup in here, and the air is warm and damp from the shower running for the better part of half an hour. You take long showers. I don't know whether that's a new thing or if you've always been this way, and that's another minefield I don't really want to trigger by asking.

_Just a minute--_

I cover the plate and slide it into the oven to keep, turn off the burner and head toward the door, wiping my hands off on a dishtowel. Sara, I'm thinking. Catherine has some school event with Lindsay, and Warrick still seems uncomfortable with the idea of visiting you here. Could even be Grissom, but when I open the door there's a short, sleek-haired woman standing there with a brightly inquisitive expression that reminds me a little of a magpie. She's wearing a neat pinstriped suit, and she's nobody I've ever seen before in my life.

_Something I can do for you?_

I'm looking for Greg Sanders. Is this where he lives?

She steps forward into my space, the way people do when they're expecting you to step aside and let them pass. I hold my ground, folding my arms and channeling Brass at his most obstinate. I just hope this isn't some long-lost friend of yours coming to check up on you.

_Why do you ask?_

My name is Amy Winters and I'm with the Daily Mail. I spoke with Mr. Sanders at the pre-trial hearing, but I've been having some trouble getting in touch with him since then and I had a few additional questions for my piece--

She's speaking in a practiced sing-song that reminds me of a flight attendant or a waitress, and it grates on my nerves more than is reasonable.

_I'm not sure Greg's really up to talking to the press right about now, ma'am._

What about you? Are you up to giving me a few minutes of your time?

She smiles in a way that's probably supposed to be engaging. Her teeth are sharp and white, like a shark's.

_I'm not really up to talking to the press right about now either, ma'am._

Are you his partner?

Before I can answer that, the bathroom door swings open, letting a puff of steam out into the rest of the apartment, and I can tell that you're coming up behind me by the way Miss Winter's eyes shift, but I don't turn.

_You planning on just standing in the door all--oh. Hi._

Neutral tone, not angry but much cooler than I'm used to hearing out of your mouth.

_Mr. Sanders, I'm Amy Winters from the Daily Mail; we met at the hearing last month and--_

Yeah, I remember.

I know you well enough to hear the warning in your voice, but I doubt she catches it, because her smile doesn't waver.

_I'm working on a piece about your case, and I was hoping to talk to you about the upcoming trial. Our sources indicate that Emma Doyle and Andrew Small were originally the prime suspects in your kidnapping, but they've both been given suspended sentences pending their testimony and I was hoping--_

Christ. It sounds like she's planning on just conducting the interview right here in the doorway whether you like it or not. I glance over to you to share an exasperated look, but your expression is sour and unamused. Suddenly, I remember your blind panic when you stumbled out of the courtroom that day, and at the time I just thought it was the trial but now I'm wondering if this woman had something to do with it.

When you cut her off, you don't sound at all panicked. In fact, I don't know that I've ever heard that tone in your voice; it's sharp and cold and painfully, precisely courteous.

_Miss Winters--_

Amy.

I'm not really interested in talking about my case with you or with anyone else, Amy_. And if you'll excuse me, I'd like to eat my breakfast now._

She opens her mouth again, but before she can get another word out, you reach around me to yank the door shut in her face. When I turn around and look at you, your face is pale and you're standing too close. You close your eyes and take a step back, out of my space, but I can still detect the warm, clean smell of soap. Your hair is dripping water down your neck to darken the collar of your t-shirt. I want to pull you into a hug, but that won't fix anything and I can't help wondering if you heard what she asked me as you were getting out of the shower. It makes me feel weirdly guilty, for some reason.

_I hate reporters._

Reporters and shrinks, huh?

I'm usually pretty good at saying the right thing with you, but when you cut me a look I wonder if I should have been so flippant. Then you laugh, reluctantly.

_Yeah. I think I'm in the wrong line of work._

Nah. Look on the bright side--at least you didn't chase her off your lawn with a baseball bat.

Who did that?

Me.

Two weeks home from the hospital and some skinny kid from one of those drama rags wanted me to tell the whole world exactly how it feels to be buried under a hill of fire ants for an entire day. In retrospect, I probably could have handled it better. I haven't told that story before, but now you're really laughing, half amusement and half astonishment, and it's worth admitting to acting like a jerk if it gets that haunted expression off your face.

_Seriously, you hit a guy with a bat? And he didn't press charges?_

I didn't hit him. They must be pulling their reporters from the Las Vegas Marathon, I've never seen anybody run that fast in my life.

That's awesome, Nick.

Yeah, well, you might want to avoid following my example.

I don't have a baseball bat.

You're still grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners, and I jerk my chin in the direction of the kitchen.

_Pancakes? They're still warm._

Awesome. Thanks.

We don't mention Amy Winters or her article again.

* * *

Your first appointment with the therapist is on Tuesday, and you're still there when I get back from work. I sit down on the couch and put my hands on my knees and stare at the blank TV screen. I don't know how long I'm there before the door finally creaks open, but it seems like an age.

You stand in the doorway, silhouetted in the light streaming in from the window in the entry hall. Your eyes look like something behind them is cracked open, hollow and raw.

I'm already opening my mouth to ask how it went, but I take another look at you and change my mind.

_I picked up that new street racing game on my way home._

Your face relaxes.

_Cool. Move over, let me sit down so I can kick your ass._  


* * *

You have another appointment on Thursday, and halfway through my shift on Sunday night Grissom calls me into his office. He's fiddling with a sheet of paper when I come in, looking uncharacteristically frustrated.

_Nick._

Yeah, Grissom?

I need your advice.

My advice?

Yes.

About what?

But really, there's only one thing right now that he could possibly need my advice about, so I'm not surprised when he hands me the paper and it's your request to return to work. You've been getting more and more antsy for the past week; much as you like to pretend otherwise you're as much of a workaholic as the rest of us and enforced idleness doesn't suit you.

Grissom gives me a minute to glace over it. This is almost definitely against department policy, but I can't remember a time that he's actually given a damn about that kind of thing.

_You've been staying with him since he got out of the hospital._

Gris--

You know better than anyone else how he's doing, Nick. I need to know that he can do the job before I let him come back.

To somebody who didn't know Grissom, that would sound cold, but I can read between the lines well enough to see the worry there.

_He's been talking to a therapist._

I know he has; I've spoken to her. I also know that he's perfectly capable of telling her what she wants to hear whether or not it's the truth. I need to know how he's really doing.

He's--it's been tough on him, Grissom.

Damn it, I should have seen this coming. I don't know what to say, because this should not be in my hands.

Grissom takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose before looking up at me.

_Is he going to be okay?_

I've never heard him sound like that before, like he doesn't know what to do. He's _Grissom_, for Christ's sake. He always has the answers. And all I want to do now is reassure him that you're going to come through this just fine, but I won't lie.

_I don't know. I know he's chewing the bit to get back here, but--_

I understand. Thank you, Nick.

He puts his glasses back on and holds his hand out for your request form. I give it back to him and turn to leave.

As the door swings shut behind me, I look back to see him sitting at his desk, surrounded by his collection of creepy-crawlies and looking lost and alone. Finally, he pulls the paper to him and scribbles something at the bottom of the page. Request denied, probably.

If you find out about this, you're going to kill me.


	21. Lazarus

A/N: Okay, I still don't have internet; I'm posting this at the library. It's been a while and I might be a little off my game, so please be merciful...

It's almost three weeks before the subject comes up again, and I'm starting to think I've dodged the bullet. You've been doing better. You hate your therapist--you won't talk about the sessions themselves but you're happy to heap derision on the shrink, who, according to you, has a screechy voice, lousy taste in music, and bad hair--but I think she's actually helped. Some, anyway. You've been going out more--the library, movie theaters, spending hours wandering around the malls and coming home with bulging bags full of books and games and DVD's. Reconnecting with the rest of the world. It's been good for you. You still startle at sudden noises and flinch sometimes when I touch you unexpectedly, but you're not walking around looking like someone took a knife and scraped you raw inside.

You haven't been having as many nightmares, either, and I know because I'm still sleeping next to you. There's a stack of clothes neatly folded next to what has somehow become my side of the bed. You offered me the use of a drawer and closet space, but I refused. This is already crossing too many lines, and I really need to start thinking about going back home before I start making it into something it isn't.

I come home one Thursday after a double to find you eating sushi in the living room with one of your dancer friends. She's a pretty girl named Eva, and she works at one of the topless bars on the Strip. I've met her before, once or twice, but she hasn't come over since I've been staying with you, and it feels almost unbearably awkward to toe my shoes off in the entry hall with her watching. When she leaves, she smiles at me in a way that makes me wonder exactly what you've been telling her.

I don't ask, though.

* * *

The day after that, I come home to find you in an unusually good mood. You bounce through our run, and when we get back to the apartment you throw yourself down on the couch without even taking your sneakers off. It probably says something about me that this makes me immediately suspicious.

_Grissom said I could go back to work._

Of course, in our line of work, _suspicious_ is often just another word for _right._Trust Grissom to make a big production of asking my advice and then ignore every word of it.

I make myself smile. Too late to do anything about it now.

_Yeah? When?_

_Next week. And it's contingent on my continued head-shrinking, but still--_

_Cool, man._

_He also said you told him not to let me._

One of these days, I'm going to strangle Grissom.

_No, what I told him was that I wasn't sure you were ready. And I wasn't._

_What about now?_

_Not my decision to make._

Weasel-words, and I know it. You roll your eyes at me and flop over until your head is hanging off the couch. Your hair is almost long enough to brush the floor and you look about fifteen like this, but when you speak your voice is serious.

_If I can't handle it, I'll take some more time off. I just need to try, okay?_

I shrug. Some part of me says that I'm not handling this well, but I really don't know what to say. You're not asking for my approval, I know that, but I'm not really sure what you are asking for. Understanding, maybe. And I do understand. I know how much it sucks to sit around just waiting to get better, and I know how much you want to just pretend that everything's okay, and I even know that you probably are ready to go back to work, or as ready as you're ever going to be. There's only so much recovering you can do sitting on your couch and playing Grand Theft Auto.

I don't know how to say any of that. The words stick in my throat and all I can think is that I can't stand the idea of you going out there, back on the job, out in the world where you might get hurt again. But it really _isn't_ my decision.

You're still watching me, and even upside-down your expression reminds me of that look Catherine uses to make people squirm without even saying a word. I look away, flushing, and you finally speak.

_Life's too short to sit around waiting for things to fix themselves, Nick. __It's been almost three months, and--_

_Time's got nothing to do with it._

It comes out more forceful than I meant it to, and when you speak, your voice is gentle.

_I know that. This something I need to do, okay? For me._

It's not a rebuke, I know that, but it sure as hell feels like one.

* * *

You get a haircut two days before you're scheduled to go back. You look older like this, somehow more cynical, and the scar on your forehead is visible without your bangs to hide it. The one in your lip is almost gone, a thin, ragged pink line, fading to silver. You finally got the splints off your fingers, and if it weren't for the undercurrent of wary tension that still lives in your bones, it would be easy to pretend that the last three months never happened.

I find myself unconsciously rubbing the ring of scars that your teeth left in the palm of my hand. They've become like a touchstone, lately. I don't know why.

* * *

The morning before your first day back, you lose three games of Street Racer in a row. You never lose that game. Not to me, anyway. After the third time you come in last you throw the controller across the room, turn the TV off, and lean forward with your head in your hands. I set my controller down on the coffee table and lean forward, mirroring your pose.

_How you feeling?_

_Terrified. Fucking terrified._

Your voice is muffled.

_You know you don't have to do this now. You don't have to prove anything._

_To myself I do._

_What?_

_Fear of a thing is worse than the thing itself._

_You get that from Grissom?_

You laugh, distantly.

_What makes you think I didn't come up with it myself?_

_You don't have a poetic bone in your body, Greggo._

Your smile is more genuine this time, and when you look up it suddenly occurs to me how close we're sitting. I know I should move back, but I'm caught, pinned by your thoughtful gaze. Three long heartbeats, and I know I should look away. You tilt your head a little, and this feels like free-fall, like exhilarated terror. Like we might kiss.

Then you shake your head jerkily and sit back, and the spell is broken.

_I'm going to bed. I have to make a good impression tomorrow. Grissom's gonna send me home for sure if he catches me snoring over the evidence._

You push off from the couch, launching yourself to a standing position with a kind of spooky agility, scrub your hands through your hair, and walk into the kitchen without meeting my eyes again.

I guess this is another thing we're not talking about.

* * *

The whole _not talking about it_ thing is made way more difficult when I wake up that afternoon with you wrapped around me, arm slung over my belly with your hand resting on the bare skin where my shirt rode up. Your face is tucked against the nape of my neck, and your hair tickles.

It's not the first time we've woken up touching; we settle in to sleep at the far ends of the bed, but you tend to migrate closer in the night--drawn in by my body heat, or so I tell myself. But it's the first time that I've woken up with you holding me like a lover, and it feels better than it has any right to. There's a part of me--a pretty big part, really--that wants to turn in your embrace and wake you with a kiss. It feels like such a natural thing to do, and that's the problem with all of this. I have no idea where the boundaries are anymore.

I slide out of your grip as gently as I can, and while you don't wake up, your brow furrows and you make a small, discontented noise in your throat as you roll into the warm impression left by my body. The sound goes right through me, and I grab clean clothes and go into the bathroom to change before I can do something I'll regret.

* * *

You ride into the labs with me. It's been a while since you've been in my truck--you've been taking the bus everywhere lately--but the labs are off the bus lines and anyway, I figured you could use the moral support. You check your kit obsessively while I pour us both mugs of coffee, even though you've packed and re-packed it three times already.

I want to mention the way I woke up, but I don't know how to bring it up and if you remember, you don't give any indication. We don't talk much on the drive in. The sun is low over the horizon, staining the sky red and purple and catching on the gleaming top of the Pyramid Hotel. The peak of summer has come and gone, and the breeze is a few degrees shy of genuinely chilly.

Your hands are clenching and unclenching rhythmically in your lap, gripping nothing, but other than that you're still.

The shy girl with the librarian glasses is working the front desk when we come in. Judy, that's her name. Judy. She glances up, smiles at me, looks down. Then freezes, looks up again at you. Her mouth falls open and she blinks rapidly. I glance over at you too; you're smiling tightly, gripping your kit so hard that your knuckles are white.

It's like that all the way to the break-room. A nervous hush trails along behind us, conversations suddenly going quiet and then starting up again awkwardly, and I don't need to look over at you to tell that you're winding tighter and tighter with every step.

We pass DNA, and there's Wendy staring openly, eyes wide. In Trace, Hodges is doing his lousy attempt at subtlety, glancing down at the vial in his hand and then back up at you. I look straight ahead, at the crowd parting before us like the Red Sea.

_I feel like Lazarus._

I finally glance over at you; your face is pale but for two spots of color high in your cheeks. That wasn't a reference I was expecting from you.

_What?_

_You know, the guy who--_

_I know who Lazarus is, Greg._

_Then why'd you ask?_

If you clench your jaw any tighter, your teeth are going to start crumbling. I want to tell you to just forget it, go back home and play video games where it's safe, but even in my own head I can't make that sound anything other than condescending. This was never going to be easy. Best thing now is to just get it over with.

It's a little better in the break-room. You collapse into the first chair you find, smile nervously around the room, and then drop your gaze to your kneecaps. Warrick and Sara and Catherine know better than to make a big thing of it, but we can't pretend that this is normal.

It's three and a half minutes of intensely awkward silence--I know, I was watching the seconds tick by on the wall clock--before Grissom finally wanders in, clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand. He pauses when he sees you, looks you up and down. You look back defiantly.

_Greg._

_Grissom._

_It's good to have you back. You're going to be with Catherine tonight; we have a 419 with suspicious circs up at Desert Palms. Warrick, Nick, I want you to take over from Day--they're still working on that five-car pileup on Boulder Highway. Sara, you're with me..._

I take the paper he hands me and watch you out of the corner of my eye as he goes on, handing out assignments like this is any other day at the labs, like you haven't been gone at all. You've relaxed visibly, and when you catch me looking you give me a tiny smile over the top of your paper.

For all Grissom's flaws, right now I could seriously kiss the man.


	22. What We Know

Even though Days started processing the accident scene at three in the afternoon, Warrick and I are still there for half the night. Part of that's just slogging through traffic that seems to be backed up to Salt Lake City, but mostly it's just a disaster zone. Three cars, one pickup truck, and a tour bus all crunched up against the bulk of a hill where the road curves sharply and some poor bastard's brakes gave out at the worst possible moment. Eighteen dead, four of them kids, half of them mangled beyond recognition. David's still scraping them off the pavement when we get there, working by the light of four huge white floodlights that wash out a quarter-mile of highway and make the blood and gore and twisted sheet metal look oddly fake.

We're two hours in when Warrick notices that the brake lines on the old F-150 have been sliced cleanly through, and now we have to tow all the rest of the vehicles back for processing. It's after three in the morning when we finally make it back to the labs, and the rest of the shift is spent trying to identify the tool marks on the brakelines and lift fingerprints off of blood-spattered car parts, with no success.

Warrick finally admits defeat when the old clock on the wall hits nine AM. I wave him off when he asks if I'm heading out; I've finally managed to get a decent print off of the undercarriage and I want to run it over to Mandy before she leaves.

When I make it to Fingerprint Analysis, Mandy's jittery and distracted, and it's not until I see you leaning against the wall inside the door with a sour expression on your face that I realize why. Damn it. I guess I was hoping that the novelty of having you back would wear off by the end of the shift but it doesn't look like that's the case; Mandy keeps shooting you these little looks out of the corner of her eye like she's concerned that you're going to keel over of crack up any minute. Your arms are folded so tightly across your chest that I'm almost surprised your ribs aren't cracked, although you relax a little when I come in.

_Hey, Nick._

Mandy jumps, pokes herself in the eye with her microscope, and turns toward me. I hand off the tape-lifted print.

_From that truck out on Boulder Highway. Somebody tampered with the brakes; run it through IAFIS for me, will you? I'm gonna head out before I pass out in the evidence room.  
_

She murmurs an assent and turns back to her desk, momentarily derailed by a new task. I catch your eyes and jerk my chin toward the door.

_You ready to hit the road, man?_

You hesitate, glance over at Mandy, then nod.

_Sure. Nothing here that can't wait for tomorrow._

That must be your evidence that she's running now. Time was you wouldn't have gone home until you had _something_ concrete to show for a day's work, but right now I'm just impressed that you've managed to keep it together this long. I guess some part of me was expecting you to have a freakout halfway through the shift, but you look fine. Tired and irritated and kind of self-conscious, but fine. I worry too much, I guess, and you're always tougher than I think. I hold the door for you and you give me a tiny smile as you head in the direction of the locker room, and it isn't until I glance back to see Mandy watching me with a furrowed brow that I realize how this must look. I've gotten so used to taking care of you that it never really occurred to me how it might come across, and considering that we work with several dozen professional busibodies, that could become a problem.

I paste my most convincing innocent expression on my face and shrug apologetically before following you out into the hall. Hopefully, she won't think anything more of it, but I'm convinced that I can feel her eyes burning through the back of my head as I walk away.

* * *

I feel like I should ask you about your day--this is a milestone, after all. It's a big deal, you being back here on the job. Handling it. Everybody else has found time to stop by and say something. Hell, even Hodges managed a garbled 'welcome back', and Wendy put together a card signed by all the lab techs. I can see a corner of the envelope sticking out of your kit. It's pink.

I don't say anything. And you don't try to start up a conversation either, although I catch you glancing at me out of the corner of your eye while the sun rises like a cool gray quarter behind thick clouds.

I stop the truck outside your apartment, clear my throat. You jump, tense, relax visibly.

_I got to head back to my place for a little while. Got to clean out my fridge._

I've been stopping over at my apartment to pick up fresh clothes, books, games, DVD's, but I haven't slept there in almost three months. Nearly everything I actually use is at your place. I'm not letting myself think about it.

You nod, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing for me to be doing after a ten-hour shift.

_Cool, man. I'll see you when you get home._

_Yeah._

I ruffle your hair. I'm slowly memorizing the kind of touches that are always okay, separated out from the kind of touches that sometimes make you jerk and shudder away from me. The hair is okay, the forearms, hands. The tops of your shoulders are acceptable; your back is not. You always feel bad for recoiling and I can't stand to hear you apologize, so I pay attention.

You grin at me, hefting your kit and climbing out of the truck with a semblamce of your old easy grace and it isn't until you're safely inside the building and I'm halfway down the block that I realize what you said. _Home._ Your place isn't home. Not even if I have been sleeping there for so long that I can't remember what my own bed feels like, not even if the only clothes left in my dresser are ratty things that don't fit me. Not even if I've been having incoming calls forwarded to my cell phone so I don't have to drive back and check the answering machine.

Damn it.

I drive over there anyway, stand in the doorway and try to feel some semblance of belonging. Plain white walls and dark wood furniture that looks oddly abandoned without the usual mess that I accumulate on my days off. TV in that corner, bookshelves in the other--barren now of all but a few battered paperbacks.

I spend twenty minutes puttering around, straightening rooms that haven't been lived in long enough to get messy and trying not to consider the fact that I've managed to move in with you without even noticing it. How the hell did that happen?

Eventually, I run out of things to do and drive back across town to your place. Home. Jesus Christ.

* * *

I can't sleep. You curl into a ball, like you always do, snoring in minutes and I stretch out on my back and watch the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles and wonder what the hell I'm doing.

I tell myself that I'm being a friend, even though I know this has gone way beyond the point of friendship. I don't know what else to call it. We're not sleeping together. Well, technically, sleeping together is exactly what we've been doing. But we're not having sex, and I'm pretty sure we never will.

Your snores stop abruptly, and when they don't resume I turn my head. I can see your eyes glint in the dim light as you turn to me.

_Hey._

Hey. Go back to sleep.

You're not sleeping.

I'm an insomniac. No reason for you to lose rest over it.

_You're thinking too loud for me to sleep. Something on your mind?_

I consider flat-out denying it, but I guess it's kind of obvious. I'm always kind of obvious, but maybe I can derail your train of thought before it goes someplace dangerous.

_It's not a big deal. How'd your day go, anyway?_

_Oh, man, it was awesome--_

Animation coming into your voice as your hands find their way into the space above your head; I can just barely see them in the dim light as you sketch out the shape of your words. A battered woman whose husband couldn't let it go, found dead in her hospital bed just as the restraining order cleared, prints dusted for and found, video surveillance analyzed. All the threads of the life you used to have, picked up as seamlessly as if you never left.

_...and as soon as Mandy runs those prints--and they _will_ come back to the husband, I can promise you that--we're gonna bring the hammer down on this guy.  
_

_Cool, man._

_Yeah. It was great. But that doesn't have anything to do with why you're not sleeping, so what gives?_

For someone so ADD, you can be like a terrier with a rat when it suits you. I shrug against the pillows, make my voice as calm as I can.

_Seriously, man, no big deal._

_Right._

You're silent for several minutes, and I'm hoping--praying--that you'll slide back into sleep when you speak again.

_You know, I wondered for the longest time why you were going to all this trouble. Staying here, and everything._

It's physically impossible for a person's stomach to drop down to their feet, especially when they're laying down, but that's exactly how this feels. When I answer, it comes out more defensive than I meant it to.

_Do you want me to leave?_

_I didn't say that. I just couldn't figure it out._

I don't miss the fact that you're speaking in the past tense. You couldn't figure it out before, but now you have. And I'd love to think that you're too oblivious to come to the right conclusions here, but I'm pretty sure that's not the case.

_You need me here._

_Yeah. I do._

That's why I'm here.

But what about you?  
  
This is dangerous territory.  
_  
It's not about me, Greggo._

You lift your hand, hesitate, then, very deliberately, reach out and touch my cheek. Your palm is warm and dry, and my eyes slide closed of their own accord. The bed creaks as you shift closer, and I can't believe that someone as skinny as you can generate this much heat.  
_  
Why not?_

Greg--

You never ask for anything.

I don't need anything.

I open my eyes again. You're propped up on your elbow, staring at me, and the expression on your face is thoughtful, focused in the gloom. I've seen that look in the lab, in the field, when you're on the verge of realization, and it's unnerving to have that intensity directed at me.

_Everybody needs something, Nick._

I realize what you're about to do an instant too late to stop you. You lean over and kiss me, carefully. Just a light press of lips, and then you move away, still watching my face, gauging my reaction. Whatever you see there makes you smile, and you kiss me again. This time, I could stop you, but I don't.

Your lips are chapped and warm and you still taste like mint toothpaste and I know I should push you away but I can't make myself do it. After all this, I still can't help being a little greedy.

I don't move, don't bring my hands up to cup your cheeks, but my whole body is straining toward you, and I know you can tell.

I am so screwed.

This kiss ends, and I take two slow breaths before opening my eyes. Your face is inches away from mine. You look solemn.  
_  
I can't do this._

You smile, touch my cheek.

_Sure you can._

No. I can't do this. I'm not kidding.

Come on.  
  
This is insane. This is it. I'm officially crazy.

_Greg, I'm asking you as a friend. Please. Don't._

Is that what we are? Friends?

You've been seeing right through me the whole time, haven't you?

_Yeah. We're friends, and I'm asking you, as a _friend,_ to drop this._

I'm not asking you for anything you don't want, Nick.

And that, right there, would be the problem. I want. I _want,_ so badly, and I know you're just doing this to prove some kind of point to yourself. And I also know that if you keep this up, all the knowledge in the world won't stop me from going along with it and that could end really badly.

Before I can get any of that out, you're wrapping gentle fingers around my wrists and bringing my hands up to your face. Almost of their own accord, I feel my fingers trace the shape of your familiar features and I don't resist as you draw me into another kiss. It's slow, sensual, and I'm falling to pieces even before you slide closer and fit the length of your body against me. Somewhere in the back of my head I'm still cataloguing how and why this is a bad idea, but that doesn't stop me from sliding my hands down your neck, cupping the knot of muscle in your arms before moving around to your back.

I realize my mistake a second too late; you're already stiffening and pulling away, warm, loose limbs gone tense and distant and I shove myself away from you like I've been shocked. You open your eyes, and the look in them makes me simultaneously want to puke and punch something. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, fingers curling into fists on my knees. Behind me, the mattress creaks, and you sigh.

_Damn it._

_Go to sleep, Greg._

My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. Knees bending like loose hinges as I force myself to stand, wildly grateful that your heavy curtains block out most of the light.

_I'm sorry._

_It's alright. Go to sleep._

_Where are you going?_

I shake my head, moving toward the door. I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing, and as the door swings shut behind me I hear you swear.

* * *

The rest of the apartment doesn't have blackout curtains, but the thin gray light filtering in through the shades doesn't illuminate much. I get a beer from the fridge and lean against the counter, trying to think. My mind is spinning, dizzy, and suddenly all I want to do is go back in and lay down and pretend that the last half-hour never happened. As if I could.

The beer is cold and fizzy on my tongue and I kind of wish I could be angry at you for using me to try out this experiment, but I can't. I guess I'm too angry at myself. Stupid. I know better. I'm not angry, I'm hurt. The look on your face when you pulled away from me--

Panic attacks happen. I've had them myself. I know I didn't force you to do anything you didn't want to, but God, the look on your face--

I take another drink, then another. Your walls are thin, and I can hear the _snick_ of your lighter as you light up a cigarette. Smell the tobacco. You were telling the truth when you said that you don't smoke much, and some part of me can appreciate the ridiculousness of the situation: you smoking on one side of the door, me drinking on the other, both of us too damn scared to face up to this. I guess I could just leave, but that was another thing you were right about. My place isn't home anymore.

I finish my beer, hesitate in the hallway, and then go into the living room and lay down on the couch. I haven't slept on it since my first night here and it's just as uncomfortable as I remember, but that doesn't matter. I have a feeling I won't be sleeping much today anyway.


	23. Breakfast

A/N: Bet you thought I wasn't going to finish this. This chapter has been written about one sentence at a time, so I have no idea if it makes any kind of sense. As always, please be merciful. 

The chrome clock on the wall hits three-thirty with a dull click, and I finally give up on trying to sleep. My running clothes are in the bedroom, but my sneakers aren't and I'm already wearing sweats and a t-shirt, nothing too embarrassing to go outside in even if they aren't exactly clean. I slip my keys into a pocket and shut the door quietly behind me. I'm far from convinced that you're actually asleep but if you are I don't want to wake you.

My muscles are stiff and sore and the air is just cold enough to bite at the back of my throat and make my mouth sting. It takes me four blocks to hit my stride and I still feel awkward, clumsy. I've gotten used to you running beside me like a gangly shadow, but I'm not thinking about you now.

Yes I am. Damn it. My legs are beginning to loosen up to the rhythm of excercise, but there's a cold knot in the pit of my stomach that I can't even begin to undo.

I've never really been out and about in your neighborhood in the middle of the day. It's busier than I expected, despite the cold. Two Hispanic boys on battered ten-speeds keep pace with me for a few blocks before veering off in the direction of a park, and I find myself weaving in and out of slow-moving crowds of shoppers as I make my way back. Your street is less crowded, probably because it's a dead end, and I slow my pace as I approach the apartment. I'm putting this off.

A sharp whistle from my left makes me jump, and I look up to see the old woman in front of the pink stucco house gesturing at me imperiously. She's wrapped in three or four heavy sweaters with a wool cap pulled down low over her wispy hair. Her bright blue eyes glint at me out of a mass of wrinkles as I climb the crumbling steps.

_You're Nicholas Stokes._

_Yes, ma'am._

I think the last person to call me Nicholas was my grandmother. It's the kind of name that seems to get shortened automatically.

_You're staying with the Sanders boy._

I nod. Her level gaze is appraising and somehow intimidating. Finally, she looks away from me. One pale hand emerges from her nest of sweaters and points at a battered walker parked a few feet from her chair.

_Bring that over here._

It's clearly an order. I obey without thinking, and she heaves herself to her feet. She's not much taller standing up than she was sitting down, but when she steadies herself on my forearm, her grip is surprisingly strong.

_You look after that boy, Nicholas Stokes._

_Yes, ma'am._

Hell if I know how, but I don't say that. She squeezes my arm again, then lets go and makes a shooing gesture in the direction of your apartment building.

_Well, go on now_.

The irritation in her voice makes me smile, even though going inside and facing you is just about the last thing I want to do right now.

_Yes ma'am._

* * *

I hesitate outside the door with my keys in my hand. I was going to just go in, but I can hear you moving around inside. Finally, I knock. You jerk the door open almost immediately.

_What, did you lose your keys?_

_No._

You roll your eyes dramatically and stalk out of the room, and I shut the door. It smells like frying grease in here, and when I toe my shoes off and go into the kitchen, you're standing at the stove jabbing restlessly at a pan of bacon. There's already a stack of french toast sitting on the counter with a napkin over it; you must have gotten up almost as soon as I left.

_Since when do you cook?_

_Bacon's not exactly complicated, Nick._

_Right._

Silence stretches out, and I wait to see if you're going to break it, but you don't.

_So._

_So what?_

_We going to talk about this?_

Jab, jab, jab at the pan, and you're still avoiding my eyes.

_Do we have to?_

_Uh, yeah. I think we should._

_Of course you do. Would you like the Freudian or the Jungian interpretation? I mean, you already met my mother, so I'm sure I could get a good long therapy session out of that--_

You're trying to annoy me and it would probably succeed if it weren't for the fear showing plain as day around your rudeness. And now I'm glad you're not looking at me, because I know I couldn't keep the pity out of my expression and I think you might hit me if you see it.

_I just want to know where things stand between us._

_Right._

You hunch your shoulders, rap the spatula once, hard, against the edge of the pan, and turn around. Your gaze remains fixed firmly on your sock-clad toes.

_I don't know. I mean, it just seems like--you're doing all this stuff for me, and--_

_What, you think I'm just hanging around hoping to score?_

_No. I don't think that._

Still not looking at me. I prop my hip against the counter and fold my arms and stare at you until you look up. There are dark hollows under your eyes, and I have to wonder if you've slept at all.

_Then what is it, man?_

_I don't _know_, okay?_

The way you say it sounds so frustrated--so desperate--that I almost believe you. Before I can say anything else, the frying grease in the pan hisses violently and sends up a puff of smoke. In a minute, the whole kitchen's going to be full of it, but you don't seem to notice. You're holding yourself still, elbows close to your body, watching me with those wounded-animal eyes. I gesture stupidly at the pan.

_Your bacon's burning._

You jump, fumble for the dial. Your hands are shaking again, and when you finally manage to turn the burner off you brace yourself against the edge of the stove like you're preparing to push off into flight. I flex my hands restlessly, then turn abruptly and pull two plates out of the cabinet. One of them hits the edge of the shelf almost hard enough to crack, and I flinch at the sound. Without looking over, I yank the silverware drawer open and pull out two forks and two mismatched butter knives and slam it shut again and then suddenly, without even intending to open my mouth, I'm talking.

_I didn't want to say anything, man. For the longest time--It's funny._

It isn't, and the laugh I force out of my throat tastes like dry sand.

_I mean, nobody would ever believe it, right? Ladies-man Nick, right? But you figured it out. You always were too damn smart for your own good._

You make a small sound that might be denial, might even be a laugh, and now I'm the one who can't meet your eyes. I'm staring at the two plates on the counter--white plastic, Goofy printed on one, Scooby-Doo on the other--and just as suddenly as they started coming, the words dry up. I'm out of words. I don't know what to say, but I guess that's been the case for a while now.

_I just want you to be okay._

_I just want to be okay._

Your voice is so quiet that for a minute I'm not even sure you said anything. Like maybe I'm hallucinating echoes of my own thoughts, like this is the first stop on the road to insanity. Then you clear your throat, and out of the corner of my eye I see your posture relax a little. Louder, this time, more confident, more like the way you used to sound when you speak again.

_Anyway, I don't know who you thought you were fooling, Nick, but it wasn't ever me. Just because you have malfunctioning gaydar, don't assume that the entire world is oblivious._

It surprises a laugh out of me, and I find the courage to look over at you. You're grinning. It doesn't sit quite right on your face, but it's a damn sight better than the defensive expression you've been wearing.

_This is some shitty timing, by the way._

I nod. I don't know what to say, but the knot in the pit of my stomach is untying itself, just a little.

* * *

We make it most of the way through breakfast without talking again. The french toast is soggy and the bacon is overdone--you'll never be much of a cook--but I can't really taste it anyway. You're fidgeting while you eat, moving restlessly like you don't even know you're doing it, and I know it's just a matter of time before you start talking again. And I'm right.

_How do I deal with this?_

The words come out abruptly, like you had to force them past your teeth. I put my fork and knife down and rub my hands over my face.

_I don't know, man._

_I just want things to be okay again and I keep thinking that they _are_ okay again, and then something happens, and--_

You don't finish, but you don't need to. And the hell of it is, I know how that feels. I thought I was okay, too, until I was sixteen, in the back seat of my father's car with the first girl who ever let me get past second base, just sitting there, sweating and fucking _terrified_ when she started undoing my jeans.

I was in college before I slept with another guy and I thought maybe that would be different. And for a while, it was. Rough hands and stubble and cheap cologne that didn't remind me of the way _she_ smelled, and it was all just fine until he grabbed my legs in just the wrong way and I almost hit him before I realized what was happening.

I did work out my issues with sex. Eventually. But twenty-six years down the road I'm still not completely comfortable in my own skin.

I don't say any of that, though. You're fiddling with the salt-shaker, mouth twisted. Finally, you look up at me.

_I'm sorry. I thought you wanted--_

_I do. I just--Greg, I can't sleep with someone who's afraid of me._

You make a face and I know you want to argue that, but you don't. And I know it's not strictly true; you're not afraid of me, you're afraid of me touching you. Of anybody touching you. But as far as sex goes, it comes to the same thing. Maybe the best way to get through this is to just keep doing it until it doesn't hurt anymore--worked for me, after all--but I'm not going to be the rock that you wear yourself down against. It makes me sick to remember the way you tensed and pulled away from me last night, and I know I can't take that again. Not even for you.

I'm saved from having to say anything else by the sudden shrill sound of your cell phone. You flip it open automatically, still staring at me.

_Sanders._

On the other end of the line, I can just hear Grissom's voice, thin and tinny.

_Greg, get your kit and get in here. Bring Nick, too. His saboteur just turned into a serial killer._


	24. Working Shifts

Sometimes I wonder if you remember the first time we met. You were twenty-three and probably could have passed for eighteen without breaking a sweat. It wasn't all that long ago. I remember you had on this butt-ugly pink and orange striped button-down and you were jittering like you'd just done a line of coke or chugged six double-espressos.

You did try coke once. Just the once. Grad school. I found that out years later, after you knew me well enough to know I wasn't going to spread it around. You were fairly drunk when you told me, defensive enough that I didn't push it, and even though we knew each other pretty well by then it was still hard to believe. For all the crazy hair and flamboyant clothes and wild stories, there was always something about you that reminded me of a kid playing dress-up.

My problem, not yours. And there's no hint of it now. The sharp light washes out your colors and illuminates the lines that are just beginning to carve themselves into the corners of your eyes. You don't look old, not yet, but nobody would ever mistake you for a college kid anymore and for some reason the thought makes me vaguely sad.

_I need to buy a new car._

It feels like a non-sequitur, even though I know it isn't, really. Your Jetta is still at the police impound, and they'll keep it there until the trial. Which is just over a month from now. You haven't mentioned it, and I'd almost believe that you aren't thinking about it if it weren't for the fact that you're congenitally incapable of not thinking about anything.

_What, you don't like my truck?_

You slant a wry smile at me, and I tell myself firmly that I'm not flirting. I'm not. There is a time and a place for flirting, and this is not it.

_I just think it's time, is all. Not that I'm gonna get much for the Jetta when I scrap it, but..._

I was wondering if you were still planning on scrapping it. Seems a shame; it's still a nice little car, but I can't blame you. Personally, I think we ought to duct-tape all three of those bastards in the trunk and roll it into Lake Meade. I'm half-tempted to share that suggestion with you, but I don't.

_Tell you the truth, I was expecting you to start looking a while ago._

_Yeah._

When I glance over at you, you're turned away, watching the buildings slide by through the passenger side window. I blow a sigh out through my teeth, and you smile at me again. Which doesn't help. The unfinished end of the conversation we started over breakfast hangs heavy in the air, but you don't seem to be in a hurry to bring it up, so I won't either. We pass the rest of the ride in silence, and once we get to the labs, there's too much going on to even think about it.

We congregate in the breakroom. Sara looks like she just rolled out of bed; in fact, if I'm not mistaken, the shirt she's wearing is actually a pajama top. Catherine's wet hair is pulled into a ponytail, and Warrick has bags under his eyes. Only Grissom looks fully awake, but then again, he probably hasn't even gone home yet.

Sara scoots over, still yawning, so that we can pull up two more chairs, and Grissom looks us both up and down with that penetrating expression that always makes me feel a little like my brain's being X-Rayed. I look away, and if I'm not very mistaken, you're blushing. It's just for a second, and then Grissom clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his nose, and nods at Warrick, who groans audibly and leans forward.

_Prints on the undercarriage of that truck came back to a local mechanic. Freddie Lowry. He's in the wind._

Very pointedly, Catherine yawns. Warrick grins at her, tiredly.

_Don't tell me you dragged all of us in for that._

_I'm getting to it. Turns out his girlfriend and a couple of her friends have been missing for two weeks. Now guess who we found in the trunk of that old Ford Taurus?_

_I'm gonna go with the girlfriend._

Warrick tilts his empty coffee cup in her direction.

_Buy the lady a beer._

_Buy her a coffee instead._

_That still doesn't explain why we all had to come in at the ass-end of the day._

You sound tired and grouchy, but I know that's not the reason Catherine and Warrick start and glance at you. I could say that you just startled them out of their flirting, but I know that's not it either. Before either of them can say anything, Grissom clears his throat again.

_We don't know who was driving the car. It's registered to Maria Gonzalez--Frank Lowry's girlfriend--but there's nothing to indicate who was behind the wheel. The interesting thing, though, is that we've tracked down five other accidents due to tampered brakelines, all of which occurred in the past month. All of the cars involved had been through Lowry's garage in the week before the accident.  
_

Your expression loses a little of its sulkiness, and I can almost see the wheels begin turning, that instinct that made you go out for field training in the first place, to pick up the thread and follow it home.

_Huh. What are the odds of that?_

_Very slim.

* * *

_

Frank Lowry owns a garage out on Boulder, but nobody's seen him for over a week. His partner, a laconic Brazilian man named Davi, just shrugs when we ask.

_He's on vacation--California, maybe. That's all I know._

_Great. Thanks. You've been a real help._

Your voice is so dry that it almost makes me laugh. The garage is a bust; place keeps lousy records and as far as we can tell, Frank the saboteur was acting alone. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to how he chose his victims; at this point, we can only conclude that it was coincidence that put the truck Lowry tampered with on the highway with his girlfriend's Taurus at the same time. We share that observation with Brass when he shows up with two cups of gas station coffee, and he's less than impressed.

_Coincidence. Right. Nick, in my experience, there's no such thing._

_Hey, I don't like it any more than you do, but right now, we have no evidence to connect them._

_You think Lowry was driving the car? Survived the accident, escaped on foot before paramedics arrived?_

_Seems like a reasonable guess. What do you think, Greg?_

You've been frowning at the cup of thin, bitter coffee in your hand, and jump when I address you.

_Yeah, sure. Um._

Pause, sip the coffee, grimace. I hide my grin.

_Do we have any leads on the other girls that went missing?_

_That's what I came out to tell you. Search warrant just came through for Lowry's apartment; Warrick's heading over there now. Said to see if you could come and give him a hand._

I squint back at the garage, where Davi is watching us sourly, meaty arms folded across his chest. Glance at you, but you just shrug.

_I don't think we're gonna get much more out of him. You ready to hit the road, Nick?_

_Lead on, G-man.  
_

I go to clap you on the shoulder and pull back just in time, hand skittering awkwardly through thin air. Brass gives me a narrow, thoughtful look, but you're busy dumping your coffee out on the thin, rocky ground at the edge of the parking lot and don't seem to notice.

* * *

Warrick meets us at the front door of Lowry's apartment building, face grim.

_What's up, dude?_

_This guy's a psycho, Nick. He's got souveniers in his goddamn fridge._

It's never a good sign when you find souveniers in the fridge. Usually, it means that they're the kind of souveniers that get carved off of other people, and Warrick's looking at you like maybe he's regretting asking you to come along. I know how he feels; you've been doing great so far, but this isn't exactly the kind of case I had in mind for your first week back on the job.

If you're bothered by the notion, you do a good job of hiding it. Your face goes as grim as Warrick's when he starts explaining about the women's fingers he found wrapped in plastic sandwich bags in the vegetable crisper, but it just looks like the normal kind of reaction we all get with the real sickos. Not like you're going to have a panic attack, which is actually disappointing because it means I have no good excuse to tell you to stay outside and take a break.

You're looking at Warrick when you speak, voice even.

_I'll take the living room. See if there's evidence that he kept any of them alive here for any period of time._

Warrick's eyes flicker to me and then back again, so fast I'm almost positive you don't notice.

_Great, Sanders. Nick, you wanna help me photograph these so Dave can move them?_

_Sure thing, man._

And that's that.

* * *

The rest of the night, we fall into an easy rhythm that feels so normal it's kind of a shock that the ride home is just as awkwardly silent as the ride in. I'm waiting for you to say something, and I can tell that you're waiting for me to say something, and maybe I should just drive back to my apartment and spend the night in my own goddamn bed for a change.

Of course, I don't. But I do bed down on the couch after a painfully quiet dinner of leftover pizza. You give me a mournful look, but don't protest.

I tell myself I'm not disappointed.

* * *

The next night, I don't complain that my back feels like it's been compressed, and you don't say much of anything at all. It isn't a hostile silence on the drive in this time; more like thoughtful. I guess I should be glad you're not pissed about my fantastically awkward handling of this whole situation, but for some reason I find it strangely worrying.


	25. Working Shifts, Part 2

A/N: So, hey, guys. It's been a while. I've managed to buy a house, move into a house, finish a semester of grad school and start a new job in the meantime, and I thought maybe I should try to finish this monster. I don't know if anyone's even still reading this, but if you are, I hope you enjoy.

_So, Frank Lowry is the only common denominator between these missing girls._

You sound calm. Professional. On the other side of the table, Warrick twirls a pen between his fingers, then taps it on the table once, decisively.

_That's right._

_And his shop serviced all those vehicles that turned up with tampered brake lines. That can't be a coincidence._

I should be focusing on the case, so I shuffle the notes in front of me, like they're going to fall into a new configuration that sheds light on this whole clusterfuck.

_Problem is, we have no evidence besides Lowry linking the two cases. None of the tampered vehicles belonged to any of the girls. And none of the other accidents were fatalities._

You shrug, glance up for a moment to meet my eyes. It's your calculating face on. I never realized how much I missed it.

_Maybe he's running two entirely different gigs, you know? Guy messes up the brakelines of customers who piss him off, that sounds like somebody with a temper. So he gets into it with his girlfriend, maybe takes it a little too far._

_He chopped off these girls' fingers and kept them in his fridge, Greg. I'd say that goes beyond taking it a little too far._

Impossibly, you grin.

_Okay, so he took it _way_ too far._

_I'll say._

Warrick's glancing back and forth between us like he's watching a tennis match, and when he clears his throat we both look at him at almost exactly the same time.

_Boulder Highway is convenient to the shop and to his apartment. If he was heading out of town from either location, that's almost definitely the route he would have taken._

_So it could be a coincidence._

God, I hate these cases. Fingers belonging to three women in the fridge, all of them removed post-mortem. I'm not sure whether or not that's a mercy. The girlfriend, Maria Gonzalez. Her two roommates, Ellen Weiscz and Karla Patillo. We haven't found their bodies yet.

Maria's younger sister, Isabel, is still missing. She's sixteen.

I hate these cases.

* * *

In the truck, on the way home, you turn the music off and roll the windows down and even though it's really too cold, I don't complain. Your fingers are tapping out a frenetic pattern on the handrest.

_You think we'll find her?_

_I don't know, Greggo._

We'll find her. I'm pretty sure about that much, but what you really want to know is that she'll be breathing when we do. Those odds aren't all that good.

You know that, so I don't say it.

* * *

Pizza, X-Box, movie, and then the sun's rising and it's time to go to sleep. I go into the bedroom--_your_ bedroom--to grab a handful of clothes, and you fold yourself gracefully onto the bed and watch me hunt for clean socks until I want to squirm.

_You could just stay here, you know._

_Greg, I--_

_I've slept on that couch before, Nick. You're going to give yourself a permanent back injury._

I shrug.

_It's not that bad, man._

_You're so full of it._

I look down at the pair of mismatched socks in my hand, look back up. You're just looking at me, eyes dark and thoughtful. No sign of the sobbing wreck we found in that warehouse, no sign of the stiffness and discomfort of the past few weeks. It's not gone, I know, but for now it's hidden. You look like you always have. Like you did. Before.

_Come on, you can even put up a pillow wall between us. No touching. It'll be like a sleepover._

Damn you and your hopeful little smile. It's a bad idea--a _really, really bad_ idea--and I still know I'm going to give in. That's just the effect you have on me, and it might piss me off if I weren't pretty sure you have absolutely no idea how impossible it is for me to turn you down.

_I'm gonna take a shower, man._

You smile lopsidedly, kick your shoes off.

_I'll be here._

I don't answer, but I guess I don't have to.

* * *

You aren't sleeping when I come back into the bedroom, but your limbs are loose and easy, eyes at half-mast, glinting catlike in the light from the hallway. There's already a row of pillows splitting the bed neatly in half.

_You don't have to--_

_Shut up and come to bed, Nick._

So I do.

* * *

The weird thing is how weird it _isn't,_ the next night. You wake up first, then wake me up by chucking my running shoes at my chest.

_We're going for a jog before work._

_What?_

_Come on, old man._

You're bouncing on your heels in the doorway, wearing an awful green and purple tye-dye t-shirt and a pair of baggy gym shorts.

_Greg, come on. It's cold out._

_You're going to get fat and arthritic and you won't be able to chase down bad guys anymore._

_Then will you leave me alone?_

_No._

_Man, you're a pain in the ass._

But I'm already climbing out from under the covers, and you're _grinning_ like--

This should be weird. But when we get outside, the air going crisp and cool while the sun sinks down behind the hills and your footsteps hitting the pavement in time with mine, your breath in my ears, it just feels comfortable. It feels right.

You steal the first shower, and we ride into work together, and it's like everything's just fine.

* * *

A club owner finds the bodies of Ellen Weiscz and Karla Patillo wrapped in plastic tarps and stuffed in a dumpster in his back alley. In addition to having their fingers chopped off, they've both been raped and beaten. He finished them off with .45 slugs to the forehead. Semen matches the exemplars we took from Frank Lowry's house, not that we needed a test to figure that out. Still. At least it looks like he was working alone.

I know I'm not the only one watching you covertly when Doc Robbins gives the report. Sara's fingers are twisting the cuffs of her long sleeved shirt into knots, and Catherine's biting her bottom lip. Only Grissom seems oblivious.

You don't so much as flinch, and if your face looks several shades paler than it usually would, well, it's easy to blame the white overheads in Autopsy for that.

Isabel Gonzalez is still missing, and nobody's seen hide or hair of Frank Lowry.

* * *

Warrick corners me in the diner on my lunch break. Doesn't even ask, just drops into the booth across from me, beams at the cute blonde waitress who brings him a cup of coffee without even needing to be asked. We come here too often.

I take a bite of my turkey sandwich and watch him stir sugar into his coffee with an expression of serious concentration, and by the time he looks up I'm pretty sure I've got my poker face all set.

_So. You and Sanders._

I take a swallow of bad diner coffee to wash down the sandwich and raise my eyebrows at him, going for innocently baffled. He snorts.

_Don't even try that shit, man. I can read you like a book._

_You think so?_

_I know so. Cut the crap. What's going on with you two?_

_Nothing._

_Right. You sleeping with him?_

It takes all the self-control I have not to spit coffee across the table.

_What? No._

_You sure?_

_I think I'd know, Warrick._

_Uh huh._

He raises his eyebrows at me, and I know I'm blushing. Damn it. This is not a conversation I need to be having right now. Not when _I_ don't even know what the hell's going on between us.

_It isn't like that, okay?_

_Okay, man. Just asking._

The waitress comes back and he orders enough food to feed a small country, and eats it without bringing up the subject again. I drink three more cups of coffee and don't touch the other half of my sandwich.

* * *

The only good thing about this case is the fact that it means everyone's too distracted to fuss over you endlessly. That's a good thing, because you disappear after shift, and it takes me a good ten minutes of searching to find you out by the back lot, sucking down a cigarette like your life depends on it. There are already two butts ground into the pavement, and when you jerk your head up to look at me, your eyes are dark and wounded. No sign of the grin you were wearing earlier, and you don't need everybody else to notice how frayed your game face is getting already.

I know better than to ask if you're okay.

_You ready to head home, man?_

You hesitate, then nod and toss your half-smoked cigarette on the ground.

_Yeah. Let's go._

* * *

_We'll find her. Right?_

No wall of pillows this time. I'm flat on my back, one arm behind my head, and you're curled into a ball on your side, facing me. It should feel uncomfortably intimate, especially after the disastrous attempt at making out the other day and the frankly awkward-as-hell chat with Warrick earlier, but right now sex is the furthest thing from my mind.

I don't look over at you, but I inject as much certainty as I can manage into my voice.

_We'll find her, Greggo. I promise._

_Thanks._

You sound wry, like you know I'm just saying it to make you feel better, and even though that's more or less the case, I can't help but try and back it up._  
_

_I mean it._

_You can't make things true just by wanting them to be._

I do look over at you now, but you seem more tired than upset.

I shouldn't do it, I know, but I reach across the foot of space separating us and squeeze your hand. You lace your fingers into mine, tight enough that I couldn't pull away without an effort, turn your face into the pillow, and shut your eyes. Conversation over.

You don't do your octopus imitation this time. When I wake up the next night, five minutes before the alarm goes off, you're snoring lightly, one leg thrown over the blankets that you always kick off. There's a small damp patch on your pillow where you drooled in your sleep, and your hand is still wrapped around mine.

I just lie there watching you until my alarm clock starts blaring Kenny Chesney. You jump, snort, blink, and let me roll away to turn it off.

When I sit up, scrub my hands through my hair and look at you, you're watching me with an expression that's at least second kin to a smile. I can still feel the phantom impression of your fingers on mine. It makes me feel warm, panicky and confused as all hell. You're too screwed up for this, still, and God knows I'm too screwed up to even think about fixing the damage.

We're quite the pair, that's for damn sure.

This time, it's a pillow you throw at me, and when I glance over, you roll your eyes. It's not quite easy, not quite the cheerful college-boy attitude problem that you've always carried like some kind of badge, but it's close. God, it's so close.


	26. Lost and Found

You're at the kitchen table when I come out of the shower, thumbing intently through your iPod.

_You ever gonna get some real music on there?_

_Contrary to the popular opinion of the Lone Star state, there is such a thing as real music that doesn't incorporate banjos._

_Funny._

You grin.

_I thought so._

_You trying to tell me you think Marilyn Manson's a better singer than Garth Brooks?_

_That's exactly what I'm telling you._

_Oh, give me a break._

There are two travel mugs of coffee on the table. Mine's plain brushed steel, a present from Momma last Christmas. Yours has polka-dots. Pink ones.

You tuck the iPod in your pocket while I pull my shoes on, start buttoning up your shirt. Sober blue stripes over a lime-green Family Guy t-shirt. Your obnoxious t-shirts didn't go away once you started in the field; they just went incognito, hidden under respectable button-downs and sweaters. Something I never realized before--before I moved in--and it makes me duck my head and grin a little because it's so you.

When I look up again you're standing right there, coffee mug in hand. You hold it out to me and I take it, smooth metal warm under my fingers, and somehow the way you step deliberately forward into my space seems inevitable. I can feel the heat of your body, smell the shampoo in your hair and the rich scent of good coffee. Your eyes are on a level with mine, dark and focused. Somehow, I always forget how tall you are.

_Hey._

_Greg, I--_

_Shut up._

There's a coffee mug in your right hand, but you bring your left up to cup my cheek, thumb sliding briefly over my brow. My eyes fall shut of their own accord, and I'm not even that surprised when you lean in and kiss me on the mouth.

Cherry chapstick and toothpaste and coffee and it only lasts maybe five seconds before you step back. The space where your body was feels suddenly cold. I open my eyes, and you grin at me, backlit by the sunset streaming in the windows.

_Come on, we're gonna be late._

I'm so screwed.

The ride in passes in companionable silence, and when I'm pulling into the PD parking garage, you clear your throat.

_You remember when I first decided to try and get out in the field?_

I cut a glance at you, cautious, but it's dim in here under the concrete ceilings, and I can't read your expression.

_Yeah._

_It was tough. I made a lot of mistakes, Nick. I screwed up. I got scared. And, you know, it took a while, but I did it. Eventually, I got it right._

_Yeah, man. You did._

_Do you see what I'm trying to say?_

Subtlety's never been your strong point. I have to smile.

_Yeah. I do._

We're passing under a set of yellow overhead lights, cool asphalt-scented air coming in through the cracked window, and your returning smile lights up your face.

_Good._

* * *

It's easier today. In a kind of painful way, but still. Isabel Gonzalez has been missing for two weeks now, and nobody wants to think the worst, but that rush of frantic energy we all get when there's a ticking clock kidnapping has cooled into something slower and harder. We'll find her, all right. Lowry hasn't given any indication of being some kind of criminal mastermind before he flipped a lid, so it's pretty much just a matter of time before somebody catches up to him.

Isabel, though--slender, pretty Isabel, who plays the saxophone and got accepted early admission to UCLA, whose mother couldn't stop crying when she came down to the station--her odds of survival are getting pretty close to zero right about now.

I'm wondering if you're going to take this one personally, but if you do, it isn't showing. We're in the A/V lab while Archie runs a trace on Lowry's cell, and you look tense and focused, arms tucked in tight to your sides and eyes narrowed.

Getting pissed off instead of miserable. I can get behind that.

* * *

Brass pages us around two, succinct to the point of rudeness like always.

_PD found Lowry's car. Corner of Amherst and Charleston. Get here ASAP._

Archie's still working on it, and it doesn't look like he's getting anywhere fast. You quirk an eyebrow at me.

_Let's hit the road._

* * *

There are three squad cars flashing red and blue all over when we get there, which I was pretty much expecting, and a ambulance parked in next to the curb, which I wasn't. Brass is standing across the street, feet planted, arms folded, face set in stone. I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining the way he winces just a little when he catches sight of you.

_Nick. Greg. You made good time._

_Yeah, Archie wasn't really getting anywhere with that trace, figured we'd try to get this show on the road. What have we got?_

_Lowry's car. It's--_

You're looking over that way too, brow furrowed.

_What's with the ambulance?_

This time, Brass's wince is more pronounced. He opens his mouth, but then the crowd clustered around the back of the car shifts and explanations are rendered unnecessary.

The trunk is open, and two paramedics are gently lifting someone onto the waiting stretcher. Someone. Isabel Gonzalez. She looks fragile and tiny and Christ, so young. She's wearing a yellow dress that's hanging in bloody tatters and her face is a mess of bruises and blood and snot. She isn't struggling but there's something about her face, even from here, that makes me think of a rabbit in a trap. Eyes so wide the white is visible, limbs stiff, and God, it's familiar.

It's so familiar.

Brass clears his throat quietly.

_He had her in the trunk. We don't know how long, but the responding officer heard her crying._

_Christ._

You still haven't said anything, and it takes longer than I'd like to admit for me to make myself look at you. Your face is like a mask, knuckles white on the handle of your kit, and you're just staring while they load Isabel into the ambulance. Just staring. The door slams shut, and it's like the sound broke some kind of awful circuit in your head. A shudder ripples up your spine and you shake your head once, sharply, and meet my eyes.

_Let's get to work._

_

* * *

_

_Greg--_

_--once we get these processed, it should be a--_

_Greg. Look at me.  
_

It takes a minute, but you do it. Your eyes are red-rimmed and a little wild, and your fingers are tapping out a frenetic, aimless pattern on the table. I don't even think you know you're doing it.

I'd like to blame it on the seven or eight cups of coffee you've had tonight, but I know that isn't it.

_The hospital called. She's going to be alright. Isabel._

Your mouth quirks downward, brief and bitter, but you don't make the obvious comment.

_Lowry was spotted at a gas station five miles down the highway. He's in a stolen vehicle._

_So we should--_

_We should get home, Greg. Come on, man. Let Days take over. _

_Those guys are totally incompetent and you know it.  
_

Still, you're shutting the scope down, movements precise and sure. You've been out in the field for years now, but somehow you still look so at home in a lab, an incongruous scientist with a flak vest and a gun.

From the other lab stool, Mandy watches us warily. You've been ignoring all her attempts at making friendly small-talk, and that's unlike you enough to worry her, I guess.

I can see her still watching when we head out into the hall, but that doesn't stop me from reaching out to brush your elbow, offering a point of friendly contact, and when you smile tiredly at me I'm glad I did.

I know what people are thinking, but right about now I really can't bring myself to care.

* * *

There's no discussion when we get home. I take my pajamas into the bathroom to change, then come back into your room without waiting to be asked. You're sitting cross-legged on the mattress when I get there.

_Took you long enough.  
_

There's too much in that comment for me to even think about unpacking it, so I just nod.

_Sorry._

_Yeah, right. Come here.  
_

I do.

* * *

We don't do anything that day, but sometime after the sun's started into downward descent, I roll over onto my side and you roll with me, wrapping your lanky body around mine like a benediction. Your knee finds its way between my legs and your arm comes across my chest, too firm and deliberate for me to pretend you're still asleep.

_Greg?_

You squirm, adjust your grip, and let out a soft sigh against the back of my neck.

_Go to sleep, Nick._

There's a gentle pressure just below my hairline, and it isn't until you pull away that I identify it as a kiss.

If I wasn't most of the way asleep myself I wouldn't do it, but I am, so I turn slightly in your arms, just enough to kiss you back. It's slow and sweet, comfortable in a way I'm nowhere near awake enough to analyze, and when I pull away I can just see the shape of your smile.


End file.
